Give Me No More Than Just Enough
by SomewhereApart
Summary: When Marian and Roland fall prey to the illness sweeping Storybrooke, to what length will Regina go to help Robin's family? And what will the aftermath mean for them? Set several weeks after 3x22.
1. Chapter 1

It's an odd thing, this late winter. Bitter and frigid, and with none of the coziness that comes with the end of fall. The sun still rides high in the sky, tries to fight its way through thick clouds from the early hours of the morning until easily eight each night. It's disorienting, leaving her office after a full day's work, and finding the sky still light, the streetlights still dark, despite the thick frosting of snow on the ground. Most nights, she stays until the sky finally darkens, simply because she can, because she is now beholden to no one and nothing - except Henry.

And tonight, it is Henry's night with her. He lives with _her_, still, his other mother, and while she'd never admit it, the truth is Regina prefers it that way. For now. She'd promised him, that first night after Marian's return, when he'd followed her home to ensure she was alright (her sweet, perfect, loving boy, with his big heart that holds so much love for her, though many days she cannot imagine why), and she'd asked him to go, to keep away from her, to give space to the rage she could not quell - she'd promised him then that she would not seek vengeance against his mother. Or Roland's. She'd promised him she'd harm no one, not even herself, that she would sit and stew in her impotent rage, because he had refused to leave her side until she had assured him that losing Roland's father would not send her into a tailspin of violence and revenge.

But she feels volatile, untethered, and it's better that he's not around for the nights she shatters every breakable thing in the kitchen, or stands in the back yard and immolates every tree except the honeycrisp, then rights everything she's destroyed just to burn off the rest of her seething magic.

It's better that he lives with Ms. Swan and her pirate, that he not bear witness to his mother's bouts of fury or the hours she spends weeping into her pillow at night, the days she does nothing but wander the halls of her mansion, numb and spent and hollow. Henry need not bear witness to her day-to-day, but they have a standing Friday night date. She makes him dinner, and he tells her about school (they're running it right through summer, because sometimes the temperatures drop into the single digits, the snow so thick you can't see your hand in front of your face, and any parent knows that weeks of cooped up children is a curse worse than any Regina could conjure), and how he babysits the young Prince Neal, and the goings-on of the other denizens of Storybrooke, save two of them. (Roland has taken a liking to him, she knows that, and he mentions the boy occasionally, carefully, but he never, ever mentions Roland's father, or his mother, or truth be told, even Emma Swan unless she is absolutely necessary. And Regina is grateful for it.)

Those nights are a balm to her, soothing the tempest she carries inside, and so she has left work early, while the sun is still up, and she has made lasagna again, because he has asked for it (he always does), and she has let him trounce her soundly in Mario Kart while it bakes, because she loves the way he laughs triumphantly every time he surpasses her (and because she is absolutely horrible at it, couldn't beat him if she tried), and now here they sit. At her dining table (too large for two, but who else would fill it?), and he is telling her about school and about how half his class it out sick with the flu that has been going around, and she frowns and reaches for his brow, even though he is in high spirits, with healthy pink cheeks, and an appetite that will leave her lasagna dish empty even if she doesn't send leftovers home with him (her baby is a teenager, my God, when did that happen?).

Henry shakes his head, and lifts his hand to nudge hers away, "I'm fine, mom," he assures, laughing at her, and she smiles, really smiles and shrugs her shoulders at him.

"Pardon me for worrying," she teases, and it's a moment that is light and easy, and then she adds, "I cannot tell you how many parents have called requesting the town cancel school altogether until the flu works its way through. Is there really an entire kindergarten class that's out at once?"

He nods with a mouthful of lasagna, slowly, not meeting her gaze. And then he swallows, finally, and says, "Roland's class. Fourteen kids were out this week, only Melody Tucker is still in school - and that's because she already had it."

"Roland's out?" Regina asks, trying to sound concerned but not overly so, but there's something in the way he's carrying himself all of a sudden, a hesitance, he knows something, and it sets her on edge.

He's nodding again, and then he tells her, "It's pretty bad." His gaze flicks to her, then back to his plate, and he takes a deep breath and says, "Robin got it first, and then Marian and Roland. Robin got better, but Marian's turned into pneumonia, and mom - Emma," he corrects, "said they tried to treat her at the hospital, but she's allergic to the antibiotics, and had a really bad reaction, and they're pretty sure she won't make it." He's rushing now, tumbling through words she figures he's been itching to tell her for days, and Regina feels like there's a lead weight settling in her belly. Marian is dying - something that in those first, dark days she had dreamed of, fantasized about and hated herself for it, and now that it is here, she discovers that she finds no joy in the thought that Robin could lose his wife all over again. She thinks of Daniel, in the stables, of having him again and losing him so quickly, and the utter, gut-ripping pain of having to watch as something so precious to her dissolved before her eyes, lost to her again and this time with no hope of return.

There's a knot in her throat, thick and painful, and she swallows hard and blinks rapidly, and asks, "And Roland?"

Her voice shakes, but this is Henry and so she ignores it. She needs no pretenses of strength in front of her son.

"He's there too," Henry admits, with a pained look, and Regina feels something twist hard in her chest. "I guess they ran some kind of test to see if he's allergic to the medicine too, and he is, but he's really sick, like Marian, so they're keeping him there trying to, I don't know, keep him from..." He trails off, and shrugs, and picks at his food with his fork, and Regina has completely lost her appetite.

"Dying," she finishes, and Henry shakes his head.

"No." His frown deepens. "Maybe. I don't know. Emma said Robin says they admitted Roland right away to try to keep him from getting even worse, like Marian. She was really sick by the time they brought her in, I guess. But I can tell when she talks about it that it's really bad, and she just doesn't want to tell me." He reaches for his water, and looks her in the eye. "Should I have told you this before? I didn't think you wanted to hear anything about him, so-"

Regina cut him off, shakes her head, raises a hand in dismissal, "No, no, sweetheart, it's... fine. It's fine that you didn't. I _didn't_ want to hear anything about him. I just..." She takes in a slow breath, lets it out, and finishes, "Poor Robin..."

Henry nods, sadly, and this time, when he leaves her house at the end of the night she does not feel soothed, she does not feel better. She thinks of Robin, alone with Marian and Roland, surrounded by illness and desperation, and the heavy weight of impending grief and she wants to scream, and set fire to the trees, and break every fragile thing.

Instead, she dresses for the cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Robin is numb, and in agony. He is not sure how he manages both at the same time, but as he sits in this chair between the beds of the two people he has loved most in this world and another, he feels nothing and everything all at once.

Marian is to his left, tangled in tubes - IV, oxygen, the trappings of this world's so-called modern medicine, and a lot of good it does them because she is dying. He has been told to have hope, but he knows. He is not a fool, and he has seen death before, on her, and this is it. Her fingers are limp in his, she is at rest, and he has no idea if those dark eyes will ever open again for him, if he will ever be witness to her smile, even one weak and frail and feverish.

To his right is Roland, his Roland, his precious son, and right now, in sleep, he looks little better than his mother. His tiny body is dwarfed in the hospital bed, and Robin has to stretch to reach his little fingers, and they're warm, all of him is warm, and flushed, and his little lungs are working too hard, Robin can hear the rattle of them with every blessed breath he takes, and Robin feels everything and nothing.

He wants to scream, wants to rise, wants to break things, wants to right everything, but he cannot move. He is numb. He is trapped in this waking nightmare, clinging to his dying family, and he has hope for Roland, he does, he knows he should, he has been told as much, that the boy is not so far gone yet, that they are doing their best to help him fight the infection in his lungs, and Robin should have faith that he will recover. And he does, he has faith, but he also has guilt - immense, crushing guilt. He brought this to them, this sickness. He brought it home, brought it into their bed, straight to his Marian, and she is not a robust woman despite all her vivaciousness. She has been frail before, been laid low, and he should have known better than to trust that this world would be any kinder to her than their own had been, but it had seemed just a bad cold at first, and she had been so eager to tend to him. To heat him soup, and keep him well-stocked with tissues, and to kiss his brow like a child's when the fever came. And then it had been too late, he had damned them all, and now here they were.

Everything and nothing, all at once.

He stares hard at them in the dim light of the room, one and then the other, back and forth, willing them the strength to survive this. He holds both their hands, ignores the ache that has flared in his back from the odd stretch it requires, from the uncomfortable hospital chair, and he is so focused on standing sentry over them that he is entirely unaware that he is no longer alone until he feels a hand on his shoulder, tentative and light.

He turns, and she is there - Regina, like a vision - wrapped in a warm coat, a deep blue scarf around her neck, the hand not resting on his shoulder pulling a woolen cap from her head, it and her shoulders dusted with snow. He hasn't seen her since Marian's return, she has shuttered herself away, and he knows that he crushed her, that he gave her happiness she never dreamed she could have and then snatched it away just as quickly, and so he has not blamed her for her solitude, and has been very careful not to violate it.

But she is here now, her face drawn into a sympathetic frown, and she says his name softly, and it is like the sound of angels.

He moves then, releases the hands he's been holding and rises, and he tingles in places as blood flow returns, but he ignores it, reaches for her, gathers her into his arms and lets out a heavy, broken breath. Her arms go around him immediately, gloved hands stroking his back in soothing passes, her voice low and calming against his ear, shushing him like a babe, and Robin buries his face into her neck, melted snow wet between her coat and his cheek, the smell of her perfume replacing the antiseptic smell of the hospital and Robin breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and clings to her.

He does not deserve this, not after what he did to her, but she is here offering comfort, and he is in no position to refuse.

His voice is rough from lack of use and raw emotion, and the lingering effects of his own illness, as he tells her needlessly, "They're dying."

She shakes her head, but he knows she knows better. She must. She is no fool.

One of her hands moves to cup his cheek, tipping his face up and into her line of vision. The leather is cool against his skin, still chilled from the outdoors, and he leans into it for the barest of seconds before stepping back, out of her embrace. He's not sure what he might do with her that close, all understanding eyes and soft lips, and him so mired in misery. He will not disgrace his wife, not here, not at her deathbed, not even under the guise of comfort and innocence.

Regina drops her hand and weaves her fingers with his, and Robin grips back tightly, and deems this level of contact acceptable. Necessary. A lifeline he can draw strength from as he sits himself on the edge of Marian's bed and Regina perches against the arm of the chair he'd been sitting in when she arrived.

She says nothing, just cranes her head to observe Roland, and he finds he doesn't need her words - because what words could she offer that could ease the pain of this? - but her presence sets him more at ease. Perhaps it shouldn't, but it does, and he wonders if it's because they're destined, or if it's simply because she's Regina and despite his loyalty to his wife he loves her desperately. Privately. Keeps her in his heart, in a tiny selfish corner he does not allow Marian to touch, and a traitorous part of him wonders if this illness, this death is his karma for harboring love for another. But it's not, he knows this, he tells himself again and again that the hospital filled to bursting with sick bodies is not his own doing, and this is not fate, it is just bad luck. It is just his poor judgement.

"I did this to them," he tells her, the confession weighing heavy on him. He has not given voice to it until now, but he hands it to her, lays it between them, and he knows what she will say even before she says it.

Regina does not disappoint. "You didn't," she assures, her gaze straying from Roland's sickly form back to Robin. "Illness spreads - you have a child in the house. Even if you hadn't been sick, Roland's entire class is out right now, he'd have brought it home. It's not your fault."

"Marian's not a well woman," he tells her, looking again at his wife, at the labored rise and fall of her chest. "She was gravely ill when carrying Roland, and she's never quite been..." He trails off, with a sigh. "I should have stayed away."

"From your wife?" she questions him, full of doubt, as if the idea is silly. "From your home?"

Robin nods, insistently, "Yes."

"Robin..." Regina shakes her head, squeezes his fingers more tightly. Still, he watches Marian.

"I grieved her once," he says quietly, and then, "And I thought it would end me, but it didn't." When she nods, he knows it is not empty sympathy. He knows that she, too, has loved and lost and grieved in a way that felt endless and all consuming, and he is grateful for the mirrored pain in their pasts, and not for the first time. "I keep thinking... if this is it, if these few weeks are all we had... I think I could survive it again." It's another confession, another thought that has come to him, unwelcome, unkind. "I would have to. If she dies, it will be cruel, unfair to get her back just to lose her again, but... I grieved her once. I'd made my peace with a life without her, and every extra day we've had has been a gift. I think I could see it that way, and live with it. But Roland..."

He looks at her then, desperate, choking on grief he has no real cause yet to feel, but cannot suppress. "If I lose my son, I - I can't, Regina. He is everything. I _can't_."

"You won't," she assures, and she seems so certain, but there is no medicine to help him, he is left to his own young defenses and Robin wants to share in her confidence but he finds he is too frightened.

"I might," he insists, and again she shakes her head, disentangles her hands from his and cups his cheeks.

"You _won't_," she swears, and before he can protest again, she looks to Roland's bed and continues to speak. "When I first started studying magic, it wasn't out of vengeance. It was hope. I had hoped so desperately that I would be able to use magic to bring Daniel back to me. It wasn't until I lost that hope that I truly turned toward darkness. But in the meantime, not long after our wedding, Snow fell ill. The King had lost his wife, and now his precious daughter," they've made amends, but the bitterness still colors her voice at the words, and he wonders how many times in her life she was put second, and feels a stab of guilt yet again, "was delirious with fever, and he had begged me. He was not a begging man, but he had pleaded with me to find some way to heal her. Why was he allowing Rumplestiltskin in his home, he'd asked, if the man couldn't even teach me to heal a sick child. Rumple had wanted to teach me a lesson-" She glances back at him. "All magic comes with a price." Then back to the boy in the bed, "So he'd asked if I was willing to heal her, even if I hated her, even if it would cost me. But she was just a girl, and back then, in the beginning, my own darkness... frightened me. I didn't want to be someone who could let a child suffer out of spite, so I said yes. And he taught me a spell - just one. For a child."

The realization of her intention hits Robin like a shower of ice water, flowing over him from his head to his toes, a chill of relief. She has not come to comfort him, she has come to save him. She has come with a cure, and all the breath explodes out of Robin, and she turns to him again with the smallest of smiles, and nods as if to tell him that he is right, that he has figured her out.

Regina's gaze flicks to Marian, and he thinks her regret is genuine when she tells him, "I can't help her. The magic is very specific, it has to be a child. There's nothing I can do for Marian, but Roland I can heal."

And then he is clutching her again, tightly, crushing her against him, and whispering again and again _thank you, thank you_, his relief a palpable thing, he is dizzy with it, it is so fierce it is almost painful. He will not lose his son. He may yet lose Marian a second time, but he survived it once, he will survive it again, and he will have Roland, his son, his boy, with his dark mop of hair and his dimples and his adventurous soul and sweet voice, he will have Roland. The boy is Regina's to save, again, and she has come to his aid, again, and Robin thanks his lucky stars that fate saw fit to give him this powerful, generous soul with her soft spot for children and her heart that loves whether or not she wishes it and her body so full of the magic that seems needed to protect his child.

He is so overwhelmed with relief that it takes him a moment to remember that she'd spoken of a price, of the cost of magic, and he grips her biceps and urges her back with a frown. There are tears on her cheeks, and when she lifts her hands to wipe at his face, he realizes he is crying too, but she is a parent, she understands, so he feels not a lick of shame.

"What's the price?" he asks, and she's still smiling at him, that mollifying smile of a mother.

Her shoulders shrug lightly under his hands and she says, "Nothing I can't handle."

He nods, looks past her to the bed, at his ailing child, and asks, "What do you need to cast it?"

"Just me," she assures softly, and then she looks to the bed that holds his wife, and says, "But once he's well, I can't risk him catching it again. He can't stay here, in this place, or with her. It's too risky."

Robin nods, agrees absolutely, scrubs a hand over his face and looks at his wife, and he knows she is dying even if they tell him she may not, and a part of his heart breaks absolutely when he realizes what Regina is telling him: she will heal Roland, and he will never spend another moment with his mother again.

All magic comes with a price, indeed.

"I can call someone," he murmurs, although he is not the only one of his Merry Men to have taken ill, and he should not be sending his boy to stay where illness lingers.

But Regina, beautiful, wonderful Regina, she has taken care of even this, and she tells him, "Tinkerbell's in the hall. She's going to take him to Emma's. He should be okay there, until..."

Until he himself can leave Marian's side. Until she is dead.

It's the unspoken ending she leaves hanging there between them, and Robin nods numbly, and then she is telling him, "Wake your wife, so she can say goodbye to her son," and Robin is numb, and in agony, and hopeful all at once.

Everything, and nothing, and grateful down to his very bones.


	3. Chapter 3

Regina focuses on Roland as Robin tries to coax Marian from the depths of her slumber. She clicks off the monitors he will no longer need, works with every ounce of care she can muster to peel back the tape on his skin and ease the IV line free, then presses a bandage in its place. He wakes, and she is not surprised, but he sees her smiling over him, and despite his blatant misery, he manages a weak smile for her in return.

"I'm sick," he croaks, and then he is coughing and coughing, like the breath it took to speak was too much for his lungs to handle, and Regina gathers him up into her arms and rubs his back and shushes and rocks.

"Not for long," she assures him, when the coughing stills. She brushes his hair back from his brow, and notes he is feverish, and he looks up at her with those big, dark eyes, and she says, quietly, like it's a very special secret between them, "I'm here to make you better."

She winks, and he smiles, and then it melts away into something miserable and he curls against her chest, nuzzles his head into her and shuts his eyes. She hears a quiet, "'Kay..." from him, and smiles. He's such a sweet little boy. The decision to heal him had been an easy one. A no-brainer, not even a question that she would come here and do this for him. For his father.

She looks up at Robin and he has tipped the head of Marian's bed up just a little, just enough, and the other woman is looking at her with dark, glassy eyes and a soft frown.

"You'll really heal him?" Marian asks her, and her voice is thin and weak.

Regina nods, and rises, adjusting Roland in her grip as she moves to sit on the edge of Marian's bed, Robin shifting backward to make room for her.

"Why-" Marian draws a breath, lets it out on a cough, and it is all weak and full of effort. "Why would you do that?"

Ever skeptical, Regina muses, although she can't blame the woman she paraded around for leverage in her pursuit of Snow White for being suspicious of her motives. Regina looks at Robin, who has a grip on Marian's ankle over the blankets, and answers, "Because it's the right thing to do," when they all know what she really means is _because I'm in love with your husband_. But there's no use in lending voice to that, because it changes nothing. She is here, and Roland is ill, and she will mend him, and that is that.

"When has the right thing ever mattered to-" Marian gets no further before Robin cuts her off with a scolding murmur of her name and Regina lets it roll off her. She's not here to make friends, she's here for Roland.

He coughs in her arms again, then cuddles in tighter, and tells her quietly, his damaged voice hard to hear, "Mama is sick, too. Will you make her better like me?"

For a moment, Regina actually wishes she could. As much as she wants Robin, as much as she would love to see Marian far, far away from everything she holds dear, she wishes she could tell Roland that yes, of course, her power is limitless in its ability to set his world right, and she will heal anyone he wishes. But her power is not limitless, and the magic she has tucked into her pocket is very specific, and she has the strength and tools to heal only one of them.

So she tells him, "No, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I can't," and she does not miss the way that Marian watches her with suspicious eyes. "The magic I have isn't for grown-ups. It will only work on you."

He says _oh_, and sucks in a shallow breath, and coughs again, and shuts his eyes. She's not sure if the answer she's given is enough for him, or if his exhaustion has simply overwhelmed his curiosity.

"So that's it, then," Marian murmurs, her voice labored, and it seems she has accepted her fate, and Regina knows that acceptance of death is the surest way to see that it takes you, and Robin must know that too, because he says his wife's name, and _no_, and _the doctor says you may yet recover_, and Regina watches them, husband and wife, lying to each other, and she thinks that she doesn't belong here, in this room, in this marriage, holding their child while death looms heavy over them. And she thinks of earlier, of Henry, of Mario Kart and lasagna and his legs that are so long, and his voice that is changing, and she imagines herself in Marian's place, watching someone else clutch her boy and knowing that she will likely never see him grow into the person he will become, and it reminds her - suddenly - of standing near the Storybrooke town line with a curse billowing behind her, watching Henry and Emma drive off and knowing with absolute certainty that she would never know her boy another day older than he was right then. She remembers the inevitability of her fate, and the forced stoicism for her son's sake, and the terrible, suffocating feeling of loss. She thinks that maybe they're not that different, she and Marian, and for a moment she debates telling her so, but this isn't about her, and she's not sure it's her place, so she stays silent.

There's a look exchanged between the three adults, and it's clear that someone needs to explain all of this to Roland, but Marian is too weak and Robin is looking at her with his mouth half opened like he cannot find the words to tell his son that he will once again lose his mother, and Regina knows the task will fall to her.

She shifts Roland on her lap, tips his chin up so he is looking at her again.

"Roland, I'm going to make you better," she explains, "but after I do, we have to make sure you don't get sick again. So you can't stay here in the hospital with your mama and papa. You're going to stay with Henry and Emma for a few days, okay?"

He nods and says okay, and then breaks her heart a little when he asks, "But then I get to see them again?"

She strokes his hair again, and forces a smile, and says, "You'll see your papa again, very soon. But..." Regina searches for the words, stares into that sweet, sweet face, and finally finds them, hopes they'll be enough. "Do you remember when we met and you told me that your mama was with the angels?" Roland nods. "And you told me how she was helping to watch over people, how that's what your papa always told you?" He nods, again. "Well, your mama is very smart and strong and wonderful, and she was so good at watching over people that the angels might her need to come back and help again."

"Oh," he says, and she watches him process this, as best as he can, which is not very well, and he frowns and asks her, "But then she'll come back again?" And Regina feels a sharp pang of sympathetic loss, and there are tears in her eyes, and she can hear Robin let out a ragged breath behind her.

She strokes Roland's hair back again, and it falls into his face again, as always, and she swallows down the pain, and says, "No, sweetheart, this time I don't think she will. The angels only let you visit once, and even then only if you're very special."

"Mama's very special," Roland tells her with a nod and then he coughs, coughs again, wet and phlegmy, and the movement of her hands over his back is automatic, a mother's touch, and she hums her agreement, and says that yes, his mama is, and she supposes Marian must be, because Robin loves her so, but she has spent more time in her presence tonight than she has since she held her captive all those years ago, so she really has no idea.

"Regina?" He asks curiously, and she rocks and rocks and makes a noise of acknowledgement. "If Mama goes with the angels, will they make her better?"

She smiles, and tells him they will, of course they will, they will make her strong again, and then she decides she's taken enough of Marian's time with him, and so she tells him, "But since you can't be with her once you're better, you need to give her a good cuddle right now. Just in case, okay?"

He agrees, and she passes him over to Marian who is looking at Regina like she's never seen her before, like she is something strange and new. Roland curls against his mother's side, and Regina stands and turns to Robin, and he reaches out, squeezes her hand and murmurs his thanks.

She nods, and tells him she'll be in the hall when they're ready for her, and she can feel him watch her the whole way to the door.

Tinkerbell is waiting for her, leaning against the wall, and Regina steps next to her, mirrors her pose and lets out a sigh, dropping her head back against the wall.

"How's it going in there?" the fairy asks her, and Regina just shakes her head, closes her eyes.

When words come, they're weary and quiet: "It'll be over soon." She's not sure if she means the task she came here for, or Marian's life, or both.

She hears Tink sigh, but for once she doesn't say anything else, and Regina is grateful.


	4. Chapter 4

Robin isn't sure how long they lie there together, his dying wife and his ailing son, whispering quietly to each other. It's as though time has slowed, stretched out, and stopped, and he is very aware that this may be the last time he will ever see mother and son together, so he watches them carefully. Watches every movement, listens carefully to every word, trying to write each moment to memory. Marian summons the strength to lift her hand and stroke through Roland's hair, likely for the last time. Roland climbs up and nuzzles his nose against his mother's - Eskimo kisses, that's what they call them here - likely for the last time. Then, he settles down against her neck again, and cuddles in close, and Marian looks to Robin, and she doesn't even have to request it, he moves immediately to them, squeezes himself into the bed beside her, mindful of the tubes, and wraps an arm over their bodies, his family whole, likely for the last time.

He aches in a way he wasn't aware one could, even after losing her once. This is different. Before, it had been sudden, it had felt so sudden, the loss of her. But even though it's been mere days, this time it feels slow, like long drawn out torture, like sinking into the mire inch by inch. Like the first time she nearly died, except this time he has no magic wand to seek out, no quarry to pursue that will bring her back to health. He feels useless, and helpless, and powerless to stop this, and he wants to be hopeful, but he finds his hope has run out. There's a finality to this, to saying goodbye, and for a moment he wishes Regina had never come here tonight, that he was still sitting in that chair willing himself to be hopeful, to believe that Roland will live and that Marian just might, and that they will make it to the morning, both of them, and there will be no need for goodbyes just yet.

But then Roland is seized with a coughing fit, an awful, violent thing, shaking his whole tiny body with the force of it, and Marian squeezes Robin's arm and says, "Get her," and he kisses her brow, dewy with sweat from the fever they can't seem to reduce, and he obeys.

Regina is there on the other side of the door, all he can see when he opens it, vigilant, waiting, looking past him to Roland, her face drawn in concern. He steps back enough for her to pass through the doorway, and she does so without a word, heading for the bed, for his boy who is gasping in breaths whenever his infected lungs will allow, looking scared, looking miserable. There's a look exchanged between Regina and Marian, and Robin cannot decipher it, but Marian nods and Regina scoops Roland back into her lap, and rocks and shushes, and presses him to her, and in a few moments the coughing subsides.

Roland looks pitifully up at her, his cheeks flushed and sweaty now, and wet with tears, and Regina rocks and rocks, and fishes into her pocket. She pulls out a small vial of liquid, glowing blue with magic, and Robin settles himself next to Marian on the bed as Regina thumbs the stopper out and tips it back, sipping half of it and then holding it for Roland, who downs the rest.

Roland makes a face, and Regina smiles softly at him, and says, "It's icky, I know, but it'll help," and then she asks him to sit very still for her, and he nods, and she presses one hand flat to his chest, tangles the other into his hair. Her eyes meet Robin's for a moment over Roland's head before she presses her lips to the boy's temple, and her lashes flutter closed. Her brow knits in concentration, and after a moment Robin sees that blue glow start to grow around her splayed hand, around the place where her lips make contact.

Robin watches, fascinated, as it shimmers and pulses, and he can see the flush leave Roland's cheeks, can see his boy's chest expand in a deep, free breath, and then Regina jerks suddenly against him, a burst of sound caught in her throat, and her fingers fist in Roland's hair to keep him anchored to her, her face scrunching tighter, and that blue glow pulses brighter and brighter and then fades.

It isn't until she breaks away from Roland - immediately, as soon as the glow is gone - and lets out a harsh, wracking cough that he realizes exactly what she has done.

Another cough seizes her, forceful and cracking, and she fists the blanket tightly and then reigns herself in with a deep, rattling breath and another small, sputtered cough, and her cheeks are flushed, her pallor sickly underneath, and Robin feels like the bottom has fallen out beneath him.

He stares at her, dumbfounded, horrified, and Roland says to him, "Papa, I'm all better!" his voice clear as a bell, and he cannot even look at the boy, because Regina is sitting before him, and she is suddenly very ill.

"Regina, what have you done?" he asks, stricken, and she looks to him, and breathes carefully, with effort.

"It's a simple trade. My health for his illness," and her voice is raspy and unwell. It's too high a cost, Robin thinks. He imagines the room differently, with Marian in one bed, Regina in the other, both of them near death and he shakes his head violently.

"I'd never ask this of you," he insists, because he is losing Marian, and he will not lose Regina as well. It is a selfish thought, that she will be waiting for him on the other side of his grief, but he knows it to be true, and it is one of the reasons he is so sure he can survive this again. The idea of losing them both, even if Regina falls by choice, is intolerable.

"You didn't ask," she reminds him, and she is weak, he can see it in the way she props herself with a palm against the mattress, her other hand pressed flat over her chest. "And I'll be fine. I asked Whale about the medication, I've taken it before with no problem." Something loosens in his chest at that, a part of him relaxes with relief, and before he can say anything, she continues her efforts to assuage his guilt and fear. "My body can fight this off. A week in bed, and I'll be fine. I won't be doing cartwheels, but... I'll be okay."

"If I'd known," he starts, but she interrupts him.

"It wouldn't have changed anything," she insists, looking to Roland, who is watching his now-sleeping mother with a small frown. "He's your son."

And it's simple as that, he thinks, and he knows she is right. He would not have stopped her, even if he'd known. Not if it meant risking Roland. Just as she would travel realms to save Henry, give him up if it meant he would live and be happy, Robin would pay any price for Roland's suddenly healthy color, for the light that is back in his eyes. Except he has not paid the price for this, she has, despite the fact that he left her, despite the sadness he knows he brought upon her, she has done this for him. Twice now, she's put herself in harm's way to save his boy, and Robin isn't sure he can ever repay her for that.

Roland turns, then, cranes his neck toward Regina and asks, "Is mama with the angels?" and Robin's heart is gripped in a sudden panic. He looks to the machines, and sees the steady beat of her heart, and over the blood rushing in his ears, he hears Regina assure his son that no, she's just sleeping, see the way her chest moves when she breathes?

Still, his heart is pounding, and he is suddenly incredibly weary, and when the door opens and Tinkerbell pokes her head in and asks if she's imposing, he finds it a relief.

Regina shakes her head, and says, "No, we should be going anyway," and "Did you get them?"

The fairy holds up a paper bag from the hospital pharmacy, and nods. "All ready," she confirms, and Regina looks to him.

"He'll be at Emma's," she reminds, and Robin nods and tells Roland he'll see him soon, and to go with Tinkerbell, and the boy scampers down off the bed and takes the fairy's hand.

Regina eases to her feet, and he doesn't miss the way she sways just slightly before she steadies herself. He says her name, "Regina-" but she shakes her head, and smiles at him, and says, "You've already thanked me," and then they're gone and he is alone with his wife.


	5. Chapter 5

_**authors note: sometimes we need a little break from the sad stuff. Thanks for all the lovely reviews!**_

* * *

"Henry, I promise, I'm fine," Regina insists, although she can't blame him for his concern. She sounds terrible, she can hear it clear as day. It's been two days since she took Roland's illness upon herself, and she's spent the majority of her time in bed. Miserable. Feverish, congested, her lungs burning whenever she coughs - which is often. Without the aid of a very strong cough suppressant, it feels like every other breath she draws triggers the hitch in her throat, sends her into fits of coughing. Even with the medication, she's coughed enough that there's a persistent ache in her chest, and her voice is hoarse.

Every few hours, she's pounding antibiotics and Tylenol, and while her fever has abated, and she finally feels like a remotely functional person again, she's still run down and a little unsteady on her feet. But she's on the mend, and she's certain she's better off than Roland would have been.

"I would just feel better if I could see you," Henry's voice sounds in her ear. She has the headphones plugged into her cell phone, one earbud tucked into place, the other dangling. The phone is stashed in the pocket of her robe as she stands in her kitchen waiting for the kettle to finish heating, a heavy white mug in front of her, teabag draped over the lip.

"I'm not exactly exciting company," she points out, unable to fight the sudden cough that seizes her, but it's just one, weak and breathy, and the kettle begins to whistle mercifully. _Finally_, she thinks, and she reaches for it, pours until the mug is nearly full, then grabs a jar of honey and scoops in a generous teaspoon, stirs it lazily as the tea brews. She's in between doses of the cough medicine, but her throat is already beginning to feel itchy and sensitive, and she's hoping the tea will provide a soothing stopgap.

"All the more reason I want to _see_ you," Henry reasons, adding, "You sound really crappy."

"I look better than I sound," she tells him, and since she managed a shower this morning, she's almost certain that's true. Almost.

"Hey, we could video chat!" he tells her suddenly. "I have mom's iPad, and you can do it on your phone, right?"

She can, she supposes, but she hasn't before, and when she tells Henry as such, he just insists he'll walk her through it. And she thinks it'll be nice to see his face, so she agrees. Within minutes, she's settled onto one of the kitchen stools, that face she loves so much is smiling at her from her phone, and she is sipping at her tea as he says, "See? Super easy."

"Mmhmm," she agrees into her mug, and then she lowers it, and smiles at him, and he makes this face - dissatisfied and doubtful, and he tells her she doesn't look that much better than she sounds.

Regina brushes a hand through her hair self-consciously, although she's not sure why. It's hardly the first time she's been sick in Henry's lifetime, although the last time she was this ill, he was in kindergarten, so maybe his memory of her is a bit foggy.

"I look better than I did yesterday," she reasons, and it's precisely the wrong thing to say, because he is sighing at her and shaking his head.

"You should have had someone stay with you," he insists. "What if something bad had happened?"

"Like what?" she challenges, the scratch of her voice not doing wonders for the tone of her sarcasm. "Literally coughing up a lung? I don't think that's an actual concern."

"You could have, I don't know, slipped and fallen and hit your head while you were coughing, or-" He can be such a worrier, she thinks, and there's a petty, immature part of her that whispers _at least this time he's worrying about __**you**_, but she silences it and focuses on the conversation he's trying to have with her.

"Well, I didn't do any of those things, Henry," she reminds, interrupting a litany of the ways she could have been hurt in the last few days, and she lifts her mug to sip carefully at her tea, swallowing quickly before telling him again, "I'm fine."

Something to his side distracts him, something out of view of the iPad, and he tells his distraction, "Yeah, of course" - his own headphones keeping her from hearing anything spoken too far away from him. And then there's a blob moving into the camera frame, a blur of flesh tones and dark, and she hears the moment Henry yanks the headphones out, the unmistakeable giggle of a child filling her ears, and she realizes _Roland_ a moment before Henry urges the little boy to settle back next to him. Roland crams his head in right next to Henry's and she cannot help but grin.

He looks healthy and hearty, and exactly as she hoped he would. Even without her intervention, she doesn't think the illness would have claimed his life, but she is walloping it with medication in a way he simply wasn't able to, and his smiling face is her reward.

"Hi, Regina!" he says, and she has precisely one moment to wonder if Robin is there as well before Roland scowls and says, "You look icky," and there's a faint guffaw in the background, unmistakably his father's, and she has her answer.

"That's no way to speak to the woman who saved you," Robin tells his son, and she can hear that he has moved closer, but she cannot see him. "You should thank her, not insult her."

The little boy looks positively stricken, and he says to her, "I didn't mean you're not pretty!" his voice insistent, "You're always pretty - papa says you're the prettiest he's ever seen," he rambles on, and Regina feels herself blush at the confession, her smile blooming as she hears Robin stumble over his words slightly, telling Roland _that's quite enough of that_, and not to go spilling his secrets, and Henry is smirking, and Regina is trying to tamp down her smile, and Roland finally finishes with, "You just look like you _feel_ icky."

"I see," she says, chuckling, and she means to tell him _no offense taken_, but as she chuckles the air hits her throat just so, and it is automatic, a reflex, the cough that shakes her, and she drops the phone face down onto the countertop as she coughs, coughs again, harsh and barking, and then again even harder and it's wet and she hacks up mucus and thinks she is glad she tipped the phone down so there is no one to witness the way she gropes for napkins and daintily spits out the phlegm she's managed to bring up, grabs another and wipes quickly at the tears the fit has let loose. The last cough has dislodged her earbud, it is dangling off the edge of the countertop, and she snatches it back, puts both ears in this time, and she can hear Roland asking again and again where she went, Henry assuring him she'll be right back. She forces down a swallow of tea, but her voice is still gravelly when she finally tips the phone back up, forcing a smile, and admitting, "I guess I do feel icky."

"See? I _told_ you," Henry downright scolds her, rolling his eyes, and it floors her again how much he has grown in the last year - how he has gone from little boy to preteen, and she feels like she's missed much more than twelve months.

"Icky, but _fine_," she insists, and her voice has not improved in the least so she takes another swallow of tea.

"Thank you for taking my ickies," Roland tells her quietly, and she can't quite tell if the way he's drawn his face is contrition for thinking he's wounded her pride or guilt over the fact that she's sick and he's not anymore.

Either way, he's absolved as far as she is concerned, and she tells him, "It was my pleasure, Roland. I'd much rather me be sick than you. I'm bigger and stronger." She winks, and he smiles again, and there is no sign of Robin now - nor any other adult, she notices curiously. She wonders for a moment about Robin's presence there in the first place, about what that means for Marian, but it's not her place to ask, and certainly not of Roland. She'll find out from Henry later, she decides, focusing on the boys for now, trying to put Robin and Marian and death out of her mind. "And how are _you_ feeling?" she asks Roland.

"Perfect," he tells her, wiggling slightly, settling in more fully against the sofa cushions.

"Good," she insists. "Then it was all worth it."


	6. Chapter 6

Robin listens to the boys as they talk to Regina, slouches deeper into his chair and shuts his eyes, focuses on their voices. On her voice. She sounds sickly, he can hear the effort it takes her to speak in a way that she can be properly heard, but she sounds in good spirits, so that's something at least. Now and then she coughs, and it is a deep, painful sound. It makes him wince in sympathy, in guilt.

But she is alive, and whole, and Marian is dead, and there is a weight on his chest, heavy and solemn. He tells himself to be grateful for Regina, and that he has no cause to feel guilt at the way her voice, even such as it is, brings him solace. She'd healed Roland, spared Robin more pain, he is allowed to take comfort in the thought of her.

He knows, deep down, that that is not why her voice soothes him so, but Marian has been gone less than two days, and so he does not think of the other reasons, does not think of the corner of his heart he keeps for Regina. For that, he would feel guilt, but not for this. Not for the gratitude he has felt ever since she showed up in that hospital room.

She laughs at something - he's not sure what, he's stopped listening intently - and Robin feels his lips curve upward slightly. And then she coughs again, hard this time, her joy tempered immediately by the illness she has taken on for his and Roland's sake, and whatever hint of a smile he'd managed falls away. He tells himself again that she paid this price willingly for him, that he didn't ask this of her, that she had left the hospital with a fever and a smile and reassurances, but he still feels responsible.

The fit lingers, and he hears a soft clatter from the tablet's speakers, and then a long, squeezing cough, the kind that draws itself out until all your breath leaves you, and Henry is saying, "Mom? Mom?" and sounding truly concerned, so Robin opens his eyes and sits up fully. Both boys are frowning at the screen in front of them, and Robin finds himself rising, crossing the small space between them.

"Is she alright?" he asks of them, rounding until he can see the screen, and it is black.

He hears Regina suck in a breath, and croak, "I'm fine," and then the image on the screen is wobbly and jerky, and her face finally comes into view, and she does not look fine. She looks worn, her face bare and pale, soft shadows under her eyes. This last coughing fit has brought her to tears, and she sniffles softly and then their eyes meet from miles apart and she freezes. Her mouth moves, but nothing comes out aside from a high whine, and she clears her throat, and tries again, and this time it's a soft, "Hi."

Henry looks between them, far too much understanding in his eyes, and then says, "Do you guys wanna talk?"

And Robin wants to say yes, but somehow feels he should say no, and Regina frowns slightly and shakes her head, and there are gaps of bare air in her speech as she manages, "Oh, no, that's okay, I'm sure-"

But Henry is rolling his eyes and shoving the iPad into Robin's hands and saying, "Oh, come _on_, you guys, you totally want to talk to each other. Don't be stupid."

And just like that, Henry's asking Roland if he wants to play video games (and of course Roland does, because in only two days Henry has become the most impressive person in Roland's world, and the younger boy is like a shadow, he will do anything Henry does), and scooting off the couch.

Robin has just enough sense to reach out and grasp at the cord dangling from the older boy's fingers. "May I?" he asks when Henry pauses, because Regina shouldn't have to put in so much effort to be heard, and because he doesn't want to risk Roland overhearing anything that might upset him. The young lad nods and releases the headphones, and Robin settles onto the sofa where Henry had been, feet on the edge of the coffee table (although it seems terribly rude), propping the iPad against his thighs just as Henry had done. He fumbles for the hole to plug the headphones in, still getting used to the technology of this world, but he finally finds it, and he tucks the ends into his ears, and settles back to look at her.

Regina.

She's smoothing one hand over her hair, and smiling almost sheepishly, and she says, "I'm sorry about Henry," and her voice cuts out in the middle of every other word, and it pains him. "He can be a bit... insistent."

"No, it's quite alright," he ensures, and for a moment he is taken aback by how clearly she appears before him. Just a sheet of glass and a thin piece of metal, and Regina is miles away and propped there against his lap all at once. It reminds him of magic mirrors, of something enchanted, of home, and yet it absolutely does not. "I did want to speak with you."

She nods, reaches for something, and then she is drinking from a mug, and clearing her throat harshly, and drinking again. "Sorry," she manages, her voice clearer this time, and she doesn't give him a chance to dismiss her apology before she asks him, "How are you?"

It's not the question she means to ask. He can hear it in her voice, can see it in the slightly guarded way she looks at him. The question is benign, but there's a deeper meaning to it, and he is too weary for pretenses, so he answers the unspoken question instead: "She passed." Lending voice to it again only makes that weight on his chest grow heavier.

Regina nods, and he can see her mouth twitch slightly as she swallows, exhales quietly, and her voice is soft, and warm, and surprisingly smooth when she tells him sincerely, "I'm sorry."

Now it's Robin's turn to nod, and then she asks him, "Did you get to say goodbye?" and Robin thinks of Marian's last hours, of how she'd woken fitfully, and yes, he'd said goodbye, he'd held her hand, and stroked the hair from her face, and told her how much he loved her, and how grateful he'd been for her return, for the extra days they were granted. He'd heard her voice one last time, weak as it was, had listened as she spoke of her love for him, and her gratitude that he had done so well in raising Roland, and he remembers in that moment being glad that they were alone. That he'd had her to himself for those last breaths, and not had to worry about their boy, or shield him from the ugliness of death.

So he tells her, "Yes," and "Thank you, for Roland. It means more than you'll ever know," and she waves a hand dismissively - she has already heard his thanks, after all.

"It was no trouble," she assures, but the roughness is back in her voice, and he knows that it was not _no trouble_. "How is he taking it?"

Robin frowns, and shrugs his shoulders, and watches her lift the cup to her lips again, surprised by the mild pang of annoyance he finds in himself when the movement blocks her face for a moment.

"He, uh... He's doing alright," he finally tells her. "She was gone for so much of his life, it's almost as if for him things have just... returned to normal. What you told him, about her rejoining the angels, seems to have helped."

"It was all I could think of in the moment," she confesses, and he tells her that it was plenty, that it was good.

"He says he's proud of her for helping," Robin shares with a pained smile, because it had broken his heart right down the middle when Roland had told him that. They spoke often of the importance of being helpful, being responsible, doing the right thing, and it seems his young mind has determined that his mother has done simply that. That Roland is not stuck in the same smothering grief that Robin finds himself in is a comfort, but he finds he envies his son. His ignorance to the true pain of death.

"That's sweet," Regina muses sadly, and it is, but he still feels raw and unsteady, and he doesn't wish to talk about Marian anymore, not right now.

"How are _you_ feeling?" he asks her, because he has noticed that she keeps swallowing, with effort, even when she is not drinking, and because he has heard her cough and cough and cough from across the room, and he worries.

"I'm alright," she assures him, even though she does not sound so. "Heavily medicated," she says, with a smirk, and then, "Which helps. Fever's gone, and I ache less; the cough's the worst of it. And I feel like I could sleep for a week."

He can see it on her face, in her eyes. The weariness, the bone-tiredness of illness. He's keeping her from her rest, he realizes, and he feels guilty all over again. It's one thing to check in with her son, but she is not beholden to Robin, he is not entitled to her time, not anymore if ever he was, and so he says, "I should let you get back to sleep, then."

But she shakes her head, and frowns, and tells him, "I didn't mean it that way. And besides, I have to take my next dose in an hour, anyway. No point in sleeping until then." And then she smiles, and it's warm, and... sweet, he thinks, although it's not a word one associates with Regina very often. "You can keep me company," she says, and in that moment he can think of nothing better.

"I suppose it's the least I can do," he tells her, and he realizes he is smiling, something he hasn't had much excuse for lately, and it feels good.

"I don't see anyone else there," she says pointedly, and then, teasingly, "Did you get stuck babysitting?"

Robin chuckles, and nods, although he wouldn't call it "stuck" or "babysitting." The others are off following a lead on this dreadful winter, and he volunteered to stay behind with the boys, instead of passing them off on Snow again. He tells her all of this, explains to her, and she asks what they know about what's causing the storms - she's kept to herself, refusing to help unless they absolutely need her, a frustration to everyone and another reason for him to feel guilt. So Robin fills her in, tells her all they know, and she offers suggestions that he stores in his memory to relay back to the others.

The time passes quickly, and before he knows it, there's a shrill beeping coming from her phone, echoing into his headphones and she rushes to silence it, and tells him it's time to take her medicine. It's probably a good thing, he thinks, because her coughing fits are coming more frequently now, and he can see that she is fading, growing more and more tired.

So they say goodbye, and there's reluctance to let her go on his end, and he senses perhaps the same from her, but they sever their electronic connection nonetheless, and Robin finds for a moment that he is still smiling. He had gone minutes, nearly half an hour, without a single thought of Marian, he realizes, and he's not sure if he should consider that progress or shameful.

With a sigh, he sets the iPad aside, and seeks out the boys. They are taking turns on Henry's GameBoy and Robin watches them play, and thinks of their mothers, and broods.


	7. Chapter 7

She wakes to the sound of the doorbell, disoriented, annoyed that someone is pulling her from the sleep she'd had to fight so hard to fall into. The idea of getting up is intolerable, and Henry has keys, and she cannot think of anyone else she wants to see badly enough to rise, so she burrows deeper into her pillow, squeezes her eyes shut and tries to sink back under.

And she nearly has, but then she hears footfalls on the stairs, too heavy to be Henry's, and a voice - his voice - "Regina?"

It's quiet, and tentative, and she thinks perhaps she's dreaming, but she levers herself up onto her elbow regardless, watching with squinty eyes as her bedroom door opens with a creak.

The midday sun streaming through her window feels overly bright, and she has to blink hard to keep her vision from wavering sleepily, but there he is. Robin. Standing there with one hand still on the knob, frozen, and she wonders what he'd expected to find. It must not have been this, because he is looking at her with an expression of regret, his mouth half-open like he's been caught in the middle of something he shouldn't be doing. She has a vague thought that for a thief, he hasn't managed to be very stealthy.

"I've disturbed you," is all he says in greeting, and Regina is not a good napper, never has been. She always wakes surly and sullen, worse than when she'd gone to bed, but even on day three of her recovery, she finds her body begging for sleep, time of day be damned. It probably doesn't help that she spent half the night up, coughing, sipping tea, sucking down cough syrup, plying her body with fluids - and then waking to a bladder full to bursting and starting the cycle all over again.

So yes, he has disturbed her, and she is scowling, and her eyes are gritty even though she hadn't been asleep long. But she can't say she's unhappy to see him, so she just shakes her head, no, and Robin must take that as his cue to move, because he walks forward, settles almost hesitantly on the edge of the bed. His hand moves toward her forehead, and he is watching, seeing if she'll let him touch, and she does, his hand lingering for a moment on her brow, feeling her temperature, then brushing her hair back. It's a more tender touch than she's had in weeks - maybe years - maybe ever - and Regina's sour mood abates immediately. His thumb coasts over the skin at her temple, down, up and back, and if she could purr, she would.

Instead she lets her eyes shut again, murmurs, "Keep doing that," her voice less scratchy than it was when they spoke the day before, but no stronger. She's gone from sounding like someone scraped her vocal cords over a cheese grater to a hoarse rasp, her throat irritated by the percussive force of her many, many coughing spells.

It makes her sound more ill than she feels, and he confirms that when he murmurs, "You sound miserable," his voice tinged with something she's fairly certain is guilt. He shouldn't feel so bad for her, she thinks sleepily - she chose this course of action for herself.

"I'm okay," she tries to insist, although there's nothing insistent about the breathy hiss she has to speak in, and she thinks maybe she's just dry, so she extends the arm not currently holding her up toward the glass on her nightstand.

Robin reaches it first, and brings it to her, lifts it to her lips even, and she steadies it with her free hand but he doesn't let go. She sips slowly, carefully, and he doesn't tip the cup too far - the practiced ease of a parent who's taught a child to drink from the grown-up cups, she thinks, remembering when Henry was small and she'd been caught off guard once, holding a plastic cup loosely until he'd knocked his face forward to tip it deeper, gulping greedily and spilling grape juice all down the front of his yellow shirt. She'd learned after that, and so has Robin, no doubt, and she tips her chin up, just a nudge, but he reads it and knows she's done and rights the cup, sets it back in place. Regina clears her throat, and murmurs a _thanks_ (the water hasn't helped much, her words still whistle through swollen vocal cords) and lets her elbow collapse so that she sinks back into the softness of her pillow. She shouldn't, she has company, but her shoulder is starting to ache from the angle it was propped at, and the pillow is warm, and soft, and she's still so tired.

"I just meant to check on you," Robin tells her, and his hand falls on her shoulder, rubs a slow circle there. "To see that you're doing alright. I'll leave you to your sleep."

But he's come all this way, and really, she's not _that_ drowsy (she is, but she'll make do), so Regina shakes her head and pushes herself onto her back, and says, "No. Stay. You're the first actual human I've seen in days." The only visitor she's had other than Henry in weeks, she thinks, but she doesn't lend voice to that.

"You're sure?" he questions, and she nods, and then coughs twice, a strained, breathy thing, and when she looks back up at him, it is definitely guilt that pinches his face.

"I'm alright," she tells him, again, and it doesn't take much effort to smile again and say, "Just give me a minute to find my manners, and we can go downstairs."

He hesitates for just a moment, and then shakes his head, and tells her, "You're ill, you should stay in bed." Then adds, "If you don't mind my perching here," with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Not at all," she tells him, and it couldn't be more true. She supposes she should mind that Robin is here, in her bedroom, that he left her in a blink for his then-no-longer-dead-but-now-dead-again wife, but she's had time to be angry, and time to be miserable, and while it never made her feel any better about the whole situation, she has always understood his reasons. But he's here now, and she's sick, and the way he is smoothing her hair back off her brow again is oddly soothing - she's not used to being taken care of, care is something that has been in short supply from others all her life. So she finds that, no, she doesn't mind at all if he sits on her mattress and whiles away the afternoon with her.

But she does mind dirt being tracked onto her duvet, so she orders, "But boots off," then scoots over to make some more room for him.

"You're sure?" he asks, again, and illness or no, she has the good sense to roll her eyes at him.

"If you ask me that one more time..." she warns, although there's not much heat in it. He chuckles in response, but it's soft, quiet, without his usual warmth and humor, and suddenly she misses him fiercely, aches with it, even though he is right there. She misses the way he used to smile at her, the way he was always touching her, the way he'd laugh. She doesn't expect that from him again, certainly not now, when he's just lost his wife, but she misses it all the same.

Robin removes his boots and sheds his coat, then slides himself next to her, over the covers while she is under, sitting with his back against her headboard while she lays flat. She watches as he shuts his eyes, his head tipping back to the headboard, and he lets out a heavy breath, his whole body sagging like he's been holding it in for days and just finally been able to exhale. And all at once, he looks like exactly what he is - a worn, grieving man - and she reaches her hand over to grasp his and squeeze gently. "How are you holding up?" she asks, and he opens his mouth to answer, but suddenly she's coughing again, rolling onto her side, away from him, her lungs burning with the vibration of each explosion of air. It ends on one of those coughs that squeezes your whole chest in, and when she can finally draw a breath again, she becomes aware of his broad palm against her back, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades, and it feels good, calming, so for a minute she just lays there and catches her breath and enjoys.

"I'm not sure," he finally says, quietly, the only evidence of her coughing spell his still-circling palm and the dull ache in her lungs. He doesn't make a big deal of it, and she appreciates that, because it's going to keep happening and as much as she likes him caring for her, she thinks fretting would grow irritating.

Regina moves onto her back again, and he is closer now. He's turned toward her, almost onto his side, and her shoulder nearly brushes his belly when she settles. The palm that had been on her back never leaves her, just skims down as she turns, and comes to rest just below her ribs. It seems a rather intimate touch for a recent widower and his scorned ex-girlfriend, but she doesn't say anything and tries not to let it show how much she enjoys any physical contact she can get from him. There are more important things right now than her own pathetic need to be touched.

"Do you want to talk?" she asks, although she's not sure what she can say to him, or whether she really wants to hear about Marian. Its the good-friend thing to offer, but he's not her friend, he's her soulmate, and try as she might to act like everything is fine between them, it doesn't escape her memory that a week ago she was breaking things in her anguish over the loss of him. Thankfully, Robin shakes his head, his gaze steady on the hand against her belly. She looks down her body, wonders what he is so enraptured by, and watches silently as her torso expands and contracts slightly with each breath, his hand lifted up slightly, then down, each time. He is watching her breathe, she realizes, just watching each slow in-and-out of oxygen to her lungs, and Regina wonders if it is because she is sick and he is worried, or because she is still breathing and Marian is not. She doesn't dare ask.

"The quiet is nice," he says after a full minute has passed. "Silence and solitude have been in short supply these last few days."

Regina smiles. "With two young boys in the house, I can imagine."

Robin nods, and she thinks she sees a hint of a smile, but he's still watching his hand. "And Hook, and Emma, and the Charmings have come by, and some of my men, and everyone wants to be helpful, and supportive, and ease my burden, and..." He makes a face, meets her eyes. "I'm not one for pity, even when its warranted."

Something they have in common, she thinks, and she smiles in understanding, and settles her hand on top of his. "I hear that," she agrees, but then, "I'm sure they just want you to know they care."

He draws in a deep breath then, and lets it out as he shifts, scooching lower on the bed until they're almost shoulder to shoulder, his arm bending under his head, his hand sliding down to her hip. The movement drags the covers down a little, down to her waist, and her pajama top is bunched up slightly from rolling earlier. There's a strip of bare skin between the hem and her bottoms, and his thumb manages to find it, rubbing back and forth absently. It tickles, pleasantly, but she knows it's not any sort of advance so she acts as though she doesn't notice, and feels desperate at how much she doesn't ever want it to stop.

"I know they care," he says quietly, "And I feel as if I should be grateful - I _am_ grateful. But the last few days, the only person I've really wanted to be near..." He's been looking into her eyes until now, but he looks away, finds his hand again with his gaze as if its a safe, neutral territory, and admits, "Is you."

Regina's heart stutters slightly in her chest at his admission - she hadn't expected that. Surely he'd rather be with Roland, or John, or any number of the men who are like brothers to him. Men who knew Marian, and their life together, and can share in his grief. Her brows draw together slightly, and she asks, "Why?"

Robin's shoulder jerks in something resembling a shrug and he looks up to meet her eyes again. "I suppose we've always been good at easing each others' pain," he supplies, and she thinks of breaking into her castle with him, and his reassurances that her pain would pass as she'd determinedly prepared a sleeping draught, thinks of sitting in the middle of the woods here in Storybrooke, brooding over her newfound sister and handing him her heart to protect, and she supposes he's right. Even when she doesn't want him to, he sets her at ease. It hadn't occurred to her that it might be the same for him - he'd never had much need for comfort in the time they'd known each other. "And I know you understand the pain of losing someone you love so dearly," he adds, and she thinks of Daniel, and knows he's thinking of the same.

Regina has no real response for him, nothing seems appropriate, so she just shifts a hair closer, and nods. Tangles their fingers again, and draws his arm up a little higher, and he adjusts until he's not so much lying beside her as wrapped around her, his knees pressing against hers through the blanket, his palm warm against the outer curve of her ribs, his breath tickling the side of her face.

As much as he'd said he didn't want to talk, he seems to have plenty to say. He continues, quietly, "I know Roland should be my priority, he and the arrangements for her rememberance, but I was sitting with John and Tuck, talking over everything, and it all felt... stifling. I had to get out into the air," his fingers flex lightly against her side, five points of gentle pressure against her skin, "and my only desire was to come here, to you. To see that you were alright."

"I am," she reassures, one more time, if only because she has no idea what else to say to him.

Robin still looks doubtful, but he nods anyway and says nothing. The hand against her ribs begins to open and close slowly, lazily, his fingers curling in, then splaying out, back in, out again. The quiet stretches between them for long minutes, broken only by another small coughing fit from her. He strokes and soothes again, but he doesn't speak and neither does she, both content just to be near each other.

When she's still and settled, his hand continues its same pattern - fingers curled, then splayed, over and over, and it lulls her, the consistency, the light touch, the slow and steady rhythm. Regina feels her eyelids droop heavily, and she shouldn't fall asleep, she thinks dreamily. He needs her. And he's here, for now, but soon he'll have to leave, and she wants to absorb every minute of this casual, easy contact she'd thought she'd never have with him again.

Regardless, she's on the cusp of sleep when he asks, "Does this betray her memory?" and despite the quiet of his voice, the utterance jerks her back from that hazy, sleepy place and she startles slightly. His palm presses against her, settles her, and he murmurs an apology.

She wants to tell him she's not bothered by him, but all that comes out is a soft hum of dismissal. After a moment, she finds her speech again to answer him, "I don't think it does," she says softly, and it's hardly more than a whisper with her damaged voice, "Maybe if we'd fallen into bed together, sure..."

He looks pointedly at the headboard, the mattress, back at her, and Regina acknowledges his point with a smile, and, "That's not what I meant. This is nothing. Just lying together."

Robin shakes his head, his palm skating up her ribs, across her belly, then back, and down, ending where it began. "It's not nothing," he says, his voice nearly as soft as hers, but for entirely different reasons. "I'm not sure we've ever been capable of 'nothing.'"

She thinks back to those very first days with him in the Enchanted Forest - the instant something between them, even if back then it had come out in banter and cutting barbs. Something had clicked from the moment he'd offered her his hand, concerned for her injured arm, and she had squashed it. Pushed it down hard, because she'd never quite felt that jolt of energy just from the sight of someone before, even Daniel had been a slow build, a crush, mutual admiration and flirting that blossomed into more. Robin had been toe-to-toe with her from the start, always in her face, it seemed, always just around the corner of a long castle corridor, always taking the seat next to her at another interminable council meeting, always disgreeing, always smirking, always taking up space in her thoughts when he wasn't around. So no, they hadn't been nothing, not even then.

And then they'd met here, and he'd been the same as always, although she hadn't known that then. But without the soul-sucking loss of Henry, she'd been more receptive, and she'd fallen into him, into this, into the idea that she could have a second chance with the soulmate she'd walked away from all those years ago. And the way she'd felt with him hadn't been nothing, far from it. It had been everything - the thrill of being seen for who she was and wanted regardless - and oh, how he'd wanted her, with his warm kisses and his roaming hands, and the way he'd whisper her name when they paused for breath. His unfailing faith in her. He'd made her feel golden, and precious, and good, for once.

And then, there was Marian, and everything had been gone. Every good moment and hope for a future that was something other than lonely had been sucked away from her in an instant, and she'd been left alone.

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them: "It hasn't felt that way lately." The look he gives her then is pained, and he says her name, just her name, just _Regina_, and she shakes her head and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." But they both know she did, so she amends, "I shouldn't have said that."

"If you think my love for you ceased when she came back-" he begins, and Regina cuts him off again, rests a hand on his chest as if to halt the forward progress of this conversation.

"We don't need to talk about this right now," she says, because she's heard just enough - while she was breaking plates and setting fire to the trees, he was loving her. And she's not sure if she believes it, not sure if she can, but regardless she takes the little kernel of whatever it is and tucks it into the aching maw of her heartache, and lets it soothe her. They'd spoken of love in the abstract, as something they hadn't thought they could have but now believed in, but they'd never taken possession of the word, not really, not for each other. And she supposes he still hasn't, but he's come close enough, and it sets her right and knocks her off kilter at the same time. _My love for you_, she hears in her head again, but this isn't about her, not today, not right now, so she doesn't let him continue. "You don't need to make me feel better, not while you're grieving."

"There's never a wrong time for me to ease your mind," he tells her, his fingers rising to her hair again, weaving there, and and she wonders if there has ever been anyone before him who wanted that - to ease her mind. Always. Even when she is not the one in the direst need of soothing. But it feels selfish, and foolish, and she shakes her head again, her hair pulling slightly when his hand doesn't move with her. Still, he urges, "Look at me," using the hand in her hair to turn her head gently, and she acquiesces to his whim. "I loved my wife, and I was grateful to have another chance to be with her and Roland, to be a family again, but please don't for one second think it was easy for me, or that what we shared suddenly meant nothing. I stayed away from you because I couldn't imagine anything I could say or do for you that wouldn't cause you more pain, but loving Marian never dulled my feelings for you. Not when I thought her dead, and not after I found she wasn't. Not in the slightest. I hated hurting you." Tears burn in her eyes, humiliating and hot, and she thinks if she blinks, they'll fall, so she shifts her gaze to the ceiling and stares and stares, and she hears him say, "I had to do right by my family," and she knew that, she knows that, that is not news, "but we've never been 'nothing.' Not even these last weeks."

She doesn't blink, but she closes her eyes, carefully, as if she can just scoop the tears back in and keep them at bay. One slips out, dripping traitorously back toward her pillow, and Robin catches it with his lips, a soft kiss to her temple, his beard tickling against her cheek. The contact is unexpected, and Regina sucks in a breath, surprised, and then she's coughing again, and as always it is fierce and all-consuming for a moment, but this time she is grateful for the distraction.

This time when she finishes, he shifts them, settles onto his back and draws her arm across him, and Regina goes willingly, curls her body against his and pillows her head on his shoulder. One of his arms settles steady along her back, his hand at her hip, the other lifts to trail through her hair again, stroking it soothingly, and she doesn't deserve this, she thinks. She never has. She'd thought, for a few blissful days those many weeks ago, that maybe she'd done enough to earn the right to be loved again, but then they'd ended spectacularly, and she'd been reminded that happiness is not in the cards for those who slaughter entire villages on a whim, and this, with him, right now, this easy comfort, the soft touches, she doesn't deserve this. Least of all from him - and maybe he's right, maybe this does betray Marian, maybe every moment they've spent together has, because, "I killed your wife."

It's out of her mouth as soon as it crosses her mind, and the hand in her hair stills for a moment, then keeps moving. He knows this already, found out the same moment she did - she hadn't made it out of the diner that night without that painful, choking revelation coming to light. That Marian had been rescued from the clutches of The Evil Queen, that she'd been meant to die come morning, that the person responsible for his suffering, for Roland's lack of a mother, had been her.

"Illness killed my wife," he says, quietly, and Regina shakes her head, tilts her chin up, grateful that from this angle she can't see much more than the cut of his jaw. She's not sure she can look him in the eye and talk about this.

"Before that," she whispers, and he shakes his head, and tells her that she hadn't died, she'd been spared that by being brought here.

"Before _that_," Regina insists again, because before Emma's little adventure in time travel, Marian had been dead, and it had surely been at Regina's hand.

"Regina," he sighs, and he shifts his hold on her, rolls them until she is on her back again, looking up at him, his warm hand smoothing flannel down over her belly, and she cannot avoid his face now without looking all the way to the far side, and she won't do that, because she is not a coward. But there's something in his eyes other than the hatred and conviction he owes her, something benevolent, and suddenly she feels the weight of her every awful deed pressing her down into the mattress, and she wishes she could just sink through, down and down and away from him and the kindness she does not deserve. "Perhaps you did, before, but it's been undone. Emma spared her, and spared you along with her, and I cannot hold you accountable for a crime you've no longer committed. I can't do that."

"But I did do it-"

"Regina."

"_I killed her_."

"I forgive you," he says, eyes steady on hers, and the words are like a knife in her gut. She does not want his forgiveness - she needs it, desperately, like air, but she does not want it. She does not deserve it.

"Why?" It's a breath, a whisper, her worn voice nearly silencing the question altogether. She cannot fathom a reason in this realm or any other why she should be forgiven for the casual murder of his wife as a means to her own misguided vengeance.

"Because I love you," he tells her, fingers tracing along the shell of her ear, then settling against her neck. "And because maybe the Regina I first fell for took Marian's life, but the one lying here beside me didn't. These hands-" He reaches for one, draws it to his lips and kisses the knuckle, "did not. And..." He shakes his head, and looks suddenly lost, the certainty of moments ago gone from him. "She's gone. I've lost her again, Regina, she's gone. She's dead, and this time there is no hope of return, and I cannot hold you accountable for a death that never occurred and still draw comfort from you over this one. And I..." He shakes his head, trails off, looks at her with the full weight of his grief, and she feels even worse, even lower, for deigning to make this about her and her culpability for even a moment.

She can't meet his eyes another second longer, so she lifts her hand to the back of his neck, and tugs him down. He goes willingly, hunkers down against her with a heavy sigh, his cheek below her collar, his hands moving to grip at her sides. Now it's she who is rubbing _his_ back, as best she can in their current position, and she feels his chest expand shakily, then collapse down again, and there's something in the way it happens that is telling. He is crying, and she wonders if he's had a chance to yet, since that night, and she figures he probably hasn't, not with Roland there, not with Emma and Henry and Hook around, not with everyone watching him with pitying eyes.

Regina wraps both arms around him, holds him tight, draws her fingers through his hair, and soothes. It's the very least she can do, considering all she's done before.


	8. Chapter 8

It is unfair to her, he thinks, to lay upon her chest and weep quietly over another woman. He should rein himself in, should cease this, but she seems unbothered by his grief. She says nothing, just rubs his back with one hand, coasts fingers through his hair in soothing passes with the other, and it is the first time that the heaviness in his chest has abated even slightly since Marian's passing. So he indulges selfishly, presses his ear harder against her, so he can hear the steady lubdub of her heart, assuring him that she, at least, is alive if not completely well. He can hear each breath she takes, and can hear the rumble in her chest when she coughs suddenly, and then again.

His palms move to her rib cage and splay there, holding her steadily if not tightly, as if he can convince her diseased lungs to settle with the sheer force of his will.

"Are you alright?" Robin asks when the coughing ceases, his voice thick with tears, and he feels her chin bob against his brow when she nods.

And then her hands are back to their steady soothing, and she says, "Don't worry about me right now. Let me take care of _you_ for a few minutes."

He had thought he came here to check on her, to see that she was okay, but it hits him with sudden clarity that coming here had been selfish. Had been for him. He'd meant it when he'd said there was nobody else he wanted to see right now, not even his boy, and he realizes why in those few words from her. He'd wanted to fall into her, to sink into the wide well of love she holds inside her, the one she cannot deny even when she wants to. He'd wanted to drown in it, burrow down into her dark but resilient heart and take refuge there, as he had let her take refuge in him when she'd been low.

And now it's his heart that is bruised and battered, buffeted with grief, and she is caring for him, taking care of him, and he has been so busy making sure that Roland is okay, that the arrangements are set for Marian's memorial, that he has not had time to let anyone see to him. Not that he likes to think he needs it, but as he lies here with her, she who is ill, but has him held against her, she who had her heart broken by him over this same woman he grieves, but hesitates not even a moment in giving him comfort over her death. He realizes that he does need it, does need the quiet time to sink into his grief, and that he needs it to be with her.

And so he lets out a heavy breath, and allows himself to truly feel the weight of Marian's passing, and that heaviness in his chest turns into something sharp and painful. His fingers clutch at her sides, twisting in soft flannel and the words are out of his mouth before he realizes they're headed there: "It's not fair. To lose her again so soon after getting her back."

She tells him that she knows, and then she speaks of Daniel, of him being finally brought back and how hopeful she'd been, how it was all she'd ever wanted, but he hadn't been Daniel, he'd been there but not himself, and he'd begged her to end him, and she'd had to because he was a danger, something violent and unpredictable, even if underneath all that he was still the man she loved. He can hear the tears in her voice as she speaks, feel the hitch of her breath beneath his cheek.

She tells him she was only with him again for a few moments and how she knows it is not the same as what he's been through with Marian, but that the pain of losing him again was astronomical, and how it had felt so horribly unfair to get him back just to have to let go again. She stops speaking then, nothing left to say - the conclusion does not need to be voiced: she understands, if not completely.

"Do you think..." he begins, wanting to voice a question that's been troubling him since the moment the doctors told him Marian was unlikely to recover - since the third time in his life he's been told she was lost to him - But he's reluctant to admit this line of thinking. It seems like fatalism, and he's always believed in choice, in each person's power to determine where their own future leads. But he thinks of Regina, and of his tattoo and what it means to them, and of how he has been so quick to rationalize her every act, even down to the murder of his own wife, because there is something about her that he cannot deny. That he couldn't deny even when she'd been little but caustic and rude to him in the Enchanted Forest, that he could not deny when Marian had asked him how he could make excuses for the woman who held her captive, who'd killed so many before her. When she'd told him they were fated to love each other, he hadn't questioned it for a moment, because he had known there was _something_ there between them from the very start. From the very first time he laid eyes upon her, before she even opened her mouth, he knew there was something.

So maybe there's something to fate after all, maybe there are destinies written in the stars, maybe his actions as noble as they'd been, and hers as terrible as they'd been, were all guided by some higher power.

"Do I think what?" she urges, and Robin decides that here, with her, he can question this.

"Do you think some people are fated to die?"

She stills beneath him - wasn't moving much to begin with, but goes completely still, down to her breath, for just a moment, and then relaxes. "Aren't we all, eventually?" she asks, and yes, she's right, but that's not what he means.

"This is the third time," he tells her. "She was ill while she carried Roland, and magic saved her. She was killed," he leaves out by whom, because they've been over that, and he's forgiven her, "and magic saved her. Prevented her death. And now, I had her back, and illness took her again. It feels a bit as though... death was determined to have her, no matter what magic we could muster to fight it."

She's quiet for a minute, her hand moving steadily back and forth between his shoulder blades. "Magic is tricky," she says, finally. "It can delay death, but it can't undo it. It can heal, but... every spell I've seen to combat death - to bring someone back from the brink - comes with a terrible cost. Usually another life." Robin goes cold, thinks of Roland. Of how close he'd come to losing him, and of how ill Regina is, and he nearly misses when she says, "If thwarting death were easy, nobody in any land with magic would ever die."

He lifts his head, and scowls down at her, "Roland. You saved him, you saved his life, does that mean-"

She lifts her fingers to his lips, shakes her head, and says, "I spared his health, not his life. That illness is being healed by medicine, not magic. And even so, I don't think he'd have died. He'd have been very, very ill, and maybe his lungs would never have been the same, but I don't think it would have killed him."

"You're certain?" he asks, and she cups his cheek and smiles, and tells him, yes, she is.

"He's safe," she promises, her thumb coasting over his beard.

"And you?" he asks, because Roland is not the only life that is precious to him in this wager.

"And me," she tells him, still smiling, and even though her voice still sounds wretched, and she still looks sickly, and he is still, always, bracing for her next coughing fit, Robin feels compelled to believe her.

He nods, and drops his head back down her to body. Her nails are scraping lightly against his neck now, and it raises goosebumps over his skin, but in a pleasant way, and he wants to stay here, with her, cocooned in this safe place until the brunt of his grief passes. He turns his nose into the flannel under his cheek and breathes her in. Normally, she smells like perfume and shampoo and all the trappings of a beautiful woman, but she is stripped down to the essentials now, and so all he smells is the faded suggestion of detergent, warm skin and a hint of sweat. He finds it no less comforting, and no less her. Robin tells himself to focus on that, on her, and not on his fears and questions.

He stays there, just breathing, not thinking, just breathing, and he doesn't know when he slips into sleep but he is jarred awake by another thunderous cough from her. Somewhere in his half asleep brain, it occurs to him that flat on her back is not the best way for her to lay while her lungs are still recovering, so he shifts away just enough to urge her onto her side, facing him. He scoots up until his head is on the pillow beside hers, and pulls her against him, slides his leg over hers, threads his fingers into her hair and leaves them there. Regina worms her way in even closer, tucks her head beneath his chin and slides an arm up to hold onto his shoulder, and he can feel the steady wash of her breath against his collar.

Robin lets himself relax again, and this time when sleep claims him, it is deep and restful in a way it hasn't been in weeks.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note: **__This chapter, you guys. I don't know. It's been giving me trouble for weeks, and I finally decided to just split it in two and give you the first part now. Apologies for the wait._

* * *

Regina is hot. She is hot, and she has to pee, and in her sleep her arm had gone limp over Robin's torso, landing just so, and now there's pins and needles tingling through her fingers, her palm. She is sweating, with a full bladder and a tingling hand, but she cannot bring herself to move. The scent of him is all around her, and he no longer smells vaguely of woodsmoke and open air, but he is somehow still familiar, and his fingers are loose against her shoulder blade, and she is perfectly content - aside from the heat, and the need to pee, and the tingling.

She's not sure how long they've slept, but the room is nearly dark, she's probably due for another antibiotic, and more cough suppressant. She should really get up.

She should.

She doesn't.

Instead, she stays where she is, and resolutely ignores her bladder. She does pull that tingling hand back, though, and the pins and needles get worse, grow sharper, and she winces, spreads her fingers, flexes, fists, flexes, fists, then tucks her hand against his chest.

Robin stirs, somehow manages to draw her even closer, his palm flattening against her back, then falling loose again, his chin rubbing against her hair, stubble tickling her scalp.

She should get up, use the bathroom, take more medicine, but for a little while, she has him to herself again, and she has a selfish desire to keep him that way. If not for the tickle in her throat, the awareness of how every breath works into her lungs (she's on borrowed time with that cough suppressant, she can tell), she could almost imagine that their time apart has never happened, that they've just been making love in front of her fire, and now they are here, asleep, wrapped up in each other. It's a selfish thought to have while his wife is not yet even in the ground (and while she was responsible for putting her there in the first place all those years ago), but Regina has never been all that selfless, not really, and there's still a part of her that feels as if Marian stole him away from her anyway. As if the other woman had never had any right to him in the first place. She wonders, for the billionth time, how their lives might have been different if she'd had the courage to abandon her rage and approach him in that tavern.

She doesn't know what they are right now, what this curious middle ground is between strangers and lovers, but they are something. He's right about that. Something intimate, if not romantic, and Regina is not sure what to do with that. Intimate relationships have always been in short supply for her. She tries to recall another, between Daniel and Robin, and it is a struggle. She and Graham had been physical, maybe even familiar (thirty years with someone will do that - even if your partner is a bit muddy about the passage of time), but never intimate. Maybe Sidney, by the sheer bad fortune of him being forced into her eternal companionship, but even then, she'd never felt an iota of the connection she feels with Robin.

There have been precious few who could see through her the way Robin does. Parents aside, the only ones she can think of are Snow and Rumplestiltskin. The former, far too intuitive for Regina's liking, despite all the bad blood, and dead loved ones, and years of animosity. The latter, far too involved in creating the monster she became. Of course Rumple knows her better than most, he helped mold her, helped grow every dark part of her. And Snow, Snow has known her longer than anyone else alive. Has known her since she was that hopeful young lover in the stables all those years ago.

Robin was the first in a long, long time to crack her open and root around inside, to settle into all her dark parts without paying them much mind - and to do so without motive or ill will or self-importance. The first one she's allowed in willingly. She wonders if it's because she knew, because the very first day she happened upon him here in Storybrooke he unwittingly bared his arm to her and she knew that he was hers for the taking, if only she was willing. He'd terrified her, the very idea of him, but she had known in her gut that he was trustworthy, that he wouldn't betray her. But then, she'd known that for months - since their time in the forest.

Things had never been easy between them during the missing year, but there had been moments. One or two, here and there, when he'd been his gratingly open and honest self and worn her down with charm and insistence and her own vulnerable heart. When she'd been raw and aching, and he'd gotten her to open up just a sliver or lighten up just a shade, and never held it against her or made mention of it ever again. He'd kept her confidences - she knows he had, because Snow had never given her the knowing looks she was sure would have followed any word of her softening or sharing or any of the other mushy emotional things the princess excelled at.

She hadn't exactly repaid his kindness with kindness of her own - often the opposite, in fact. She'd been too raw, and too unused to someone taking an interest in her that was genuine and unselfish. Every step he managed closer to her usually sent her reeling two or three back. But she'd trusted him, despite herself.

And if she doesn't pee soon, she will wet the bed like a child.

She cannot wait any longer to extricate herself, it must be done, so Regina shifts back carefully, tries to work her way out of Robin's embrace without waking him. But he's been too long sleeping under the canopy of a dangerous forest, alert to any threats to his men, his child, and he is awake immediately, sucking in a quick breath as his head leaves the pillow and he squints sleepily at her.

"I'll be right back," she whispers reassuringly. And then, "Go back to sleep."

He grunts, scowling in a way she finds utterly adorable, but his head falls back to the pillow, eyes already closed. Regina slips off the bed, feels a bit weak-kneed from spending the whole day in it, but she still scuttles as quickly and quietly as she can for the bathroom. The urge to go is desperate now.

She relieves herself, clears her throat again and again while she does it, because that tickle is still there, that hitch in her chest that has her breathing shallowly to avoid coughing. She should've brought her medicine with her, could have taken it without disturbing him again - it's all the way back in the bedroom now.

She washes her hands and then studies herself in the mirror for a few moments, frowning at her reflection. She still looks wrecked - hair mussed, dark circles on her pale skin, her eyes watery. Not a drop of makeup, and she's slick with sweat in places (her belly, the spot on her back where his warm arm had cradled her), and sticky with heat everywhere else. She feels filmy and grimy, and she needs to shower and brush her teeth. She'll start the taps in the shower, she thinks, let the water warm up as she fetches new pajamas, ones that don't smell like a day gone unwashed, and maybe she'll even be clean and presentable before he wakes from his nap.

That's her plan, and she runs her fingers through her hair, smooths it down and turns toward the shower with a deep sigh.

Her lungs protest immediately, seizing up and propelling her into a cough that shakes her violently, then repeats, and repeats, persistent, unforgiving and unending.

It's not the first time she's been seized like this in the last few days, but it's still horribly unpleasant, this feeling like she can't catch her breath, like every drop of air she manages to force down her throat just makes the coughing worse. Her palms slap down to the sink's edge, gripping there, supporting her, and she cannot breathe for coughing.

She doesn't get better, only worse, and it's one of the few times this illness has actually frightened her. She coughs so hard her knees buckle, elbows thudding onto the porcelain in place of hands, and she thinks she might vomit, thankfully doesn't, but it rattles something loose in her lungs, forces it up, and suddenly she has a mouth full of mucus and Robin is there behind her, saying her name almost frantically, his hands on her back.

She is bent over the sink, hands scrabbling for the tap and yanking it on and she spits out her disgusting mouthful, straight into the stream so it washes down and away, out of sight. Not that she can see clearly through the tears in her eyes.

Robin is half supporting her now asking, "What can I do? What do you need? Regina, talk to me, please."

But she can't answer him, doesn't have the air for it. Her breath is coming in ragged gasps, which is horrible, terrible, because it triggers her into more coughing, and her head is pounding now, tears running down her cheeks, and she cannot even turn to look at Robin because this is mortifying, he should not be seeing her like this.

Finally, she manages to gasp, "nightstand," and "bottle," her voice a rough scratch in between coughs, and he says _alright_ and _I'll be right back_, and then his hands are gone from her and she sinks down to her knees, presses her forehead against the cabinet and tries futilely to rein this all in. She coughs up more junk and gropes for the toilet paper blindly, spins a wad off the roll and yanks it free, spits into it before Robin has to bear witness to that ugly sight. He returns in no time, must have run there and back, and he is behind her again, on his knees, urging her back against his chest and dropping bottles into her lap, every one he could find by the looks of it. Antibiotics and Advil PM, Imitrex and Midol, and the one she needs, the only one not packed with pills - the cough suppressant.

She fumbles for it, and her hands are shaking, so Robin takes it from her and turns the cap. It spins uselessly - childproof, something he's unfamiliar with - and Regina yanks it back from him, presses her palm down hard against the cap and twists it free, doesn't even bother to measure out the dosage, just brings it to her lips and chugs. It is thick and heavy, coats her throat, and slides down to her belly with a warm spread of medicinal cherry flavoring. When she tips it away from her lips and he reaches for the bottle again, she lets him take it, dropping her head heavily onto his shoulder and trying to keep her panting breaths shallow and bearable.

God, that was awful.

It takes a moment for her to become aware of the quickness of Robin's breath against her back, of the hand he has laid steady on her chest, just below her collar, a gentle, soothing pressure over where her lungs are still trying to find a normal rhythm. When she finally, finally looks at him, all she sees is fear.

She has scared him, and she is not surprised, that was a beastly hell of a fit, and she has been unable to offer him any sort of reassurance that she's not about to choke to death on her own spit. He looks her square in the eyes and asks, "Do you need the doctor?" and she shakes her head, swallows, lets out another cough, this one shallow and weak.

"I'm okay," she tells him, and her voice is an octave too low, and gravelly again. "Just overdue for the cough medicine."

He shakes his head and clutches her against him, and Regina sinks deeper against his shoulder, turning her aching head into his neck. "You scared me," he murmurs, rubbing his palm back and forth under her collarbone and she lets out a soft, dry chuckle.

"Me, too," she admits. "That was... unpleasant."

"Henry's right; you should have had someone here with you," he insists, and Regina rolls her eyes at him.

"I can take care of myself," she insists, and Robin just grips her tighter.

"You cannot be serious," he growls into her hair, and Regina pushes away and turns to scowl up at him, about to tell him off when he cups her cheek and denies her the chance by saying, "I get to be worried for you when you can't draw a full breath, or speak, or even look at me. You couldn't even stay upright."

And she has to give him that, she supposes, so she relents, nods, and relaxes back against him. He cradles her to him again, one arm around her belly, the other now wrapped across her front from bicep to bicep, his mouth pressed to the crook between her neck and shoulder, not kissing, just resting, his every exhale tickling across her skin. "Is there anything else you need to take?" he asks after a few moments of silence, and she nods, murmurs something about antibiotics, but she's comfortable now, and doesn't want to move quite yet, so when he reaches for the two prescription bottles in her lap, she lifts a hand weakly toward his shoulder to still him, telling him, "In a minute. I need a minute."

He nods, and then that press of lips becomes a kiss, distinct, definite, dropping onto the warm skin at the base of her neck. And then another, more, a garden of them planted lightly onto her shoulder, over the flannel there and he is muttering in between each one, desperately, "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you..." It takes her a second to realize what he means - Roland - and she cups his knee with her hand and rubs there soothingly. "Thank you for doing this, I'd never have asked you to do this," and she shushes him gently and squeezes her hand against him.

"Robin, it's done," she tells him. "You don't have to keep thanking me."

He shakes his head, ignores her, and says, "We should get you back to bed."

"Mm-mm," Regina protests. "I need a shower. I'm sticky."

He tilts her until he can see her face, his own incredulous. "You think I'm letting you step into a slippery tub right now? After all that?"

"I don't think you'll _let_ me do anything," Regina counters as sternly as she can manage. "I'm a grown adult, this is my home, and I'll shower if I wish to."

"Not alone," he insists, and she arches one eyebrow slowly at the implication of that. "I won't have you hurt under my care," he says to her, and then compromises with, "If you insist on bathing, at least allow me to stay here, in the room, in case you need me. I swear to you that I won't peek."

There's nothing left he hasn't seen, she thinks, but Marian is still lying in the morgue, so a tandem shower is out if the question. And now that he's up and not likely to get any more sleep no matter what he does, she can't find much fault in his idea. If he wants to stand there and sweat and keep her company, that's his prerogative. So she agrees, and has him help her to her feet, teaches him the ways of the childproof pill cap before she takes her antibiotic with a palmful of tap water.

"Can you get my robe from the bedroom?" Figuring it will buy her time to get out of her clothes and into the shower.

She cranks the heat up high, as high as she can stand, hoping to steam her battered lungs, then strips quickly, balling up her pajamas and shoving them into the hamper of dirty towels before stepping into the tub and drawing the curtain. She hisses at the first contact of water on skin - it's hot enough that she has to ease in, grimacing until she adjusts to the intensity of the heat.

But once she does, it's exactly what she needs. She tips her head back into the spray, lets it beat down on her, and closes her eyes. The air around her grows warm and heavy, thick with steam and she wants to breathe it in deeply, but she waits, too afraid of her own fragile lungs to risk sending herself into another fit.

And then she hears the door open and close softly, knows he's back, and breathes in.

This time, her lungs don't protest.


	10. Chapter 10

Robin opens the bathroom door to a billow of steam that seems far too robust for the amount of time he's been out of the room. All he'd done was return her medicine to the nightstand, grab the robe that had slipped off the end of the bed to puddle on the floor, and fished a fresh pair of pajamas from her drawer. She hadn't asked for them, but he figures she can't very well traipse around the place naked, or in just her robe. He hadn't brought her any underthings - rifling through her underwear drawer had seemed inappropriately intimate.

He's been gone for mere minutes, but already the bathroom air is heavy, like breathing soup, steam making everything hazy, fogging the mirror, and he asks of her, "Am I going to have to treat you for burns when you emerge, milady?"

"What?"

"That water must be scalding. I can feel the heat from here."

Robin is already sweating lightly.

"Steam is good for the lungs," Regina tells him, dismissively. The sound of her voice pains him. There's more to it than there was when he arrived today, but it still sounds awful. She probably shouldn't speak. He probably shouldn't prompt her to.

He decides to let her rest her voice and steam herself, and resolves that he is here for only what he promised - a sentry to watch over her, to ensure she's safe, that she doesn't slip and crack her head open in the midst of a coughing spell. He can see it then, in his mind's eye, the gash in her brow, the crimson spill of blood, running down her forehead, feathering out over wet porcelain as she gasps for breath between harsh coughs, all the while being pelted with hot water. Robin blinks hard, shakes his head to clear the image. Grief makes him morbid - he'd been that way after Marian, the last time. Seeing peril for those he cared about everywhere he looked, and all too often in vivid detail.

She's probably right. She'd probably be fine on her own. But it makes Robin feel better to stand here, to look after her, to be sure.

He leans against the edge of the sink, and tries very hard not to think any more dark thoughts. He also tries very hard not to look at the shower curtain, because it will only remind him of what is just beyond it - a very naked, very wet Regina - and that isn't a thought he wants to indulge right now either. As lovely of an escape as it might be.

Guilt twists in his chest at even that small admission. He shouldn't be thinking of her that way, not with Marian so recently gone. (Shouldn't have thought of it as much as he had when Marian was still here.)

He probably shouldn't be here at all, and certainly not for as long as he has been. He's been gone for hours, now. They're probably growing worried for him. But the dull ache of grief he's been carrying has shifted, become something numb and selfish, and he finds he doesn't care about the others or their worries. Roland is safe, and everyone else can take care of themselves. His own private way of dealing with his grief - seeking her out - is his alone, and not theirs to judge.

He feels surly, all of a sudden. Eyes gritty, still tired, and a frown drawing down his lips. Maybe it's the nap, maybe it's the grief, maybe it's the guilt.

He's not doing so well, left to his own thoughts, he realizes. Maybe silence wasn't the right choice, after all.

As he thinks it, all that heavy steam suddenly goes fragrant, the distinct scent of lavender filling the room, and he hears a soft sigh from Regina. At least she sounds content.

He probably shouldn't bother her.

He's not sure what he'd say to her anyway. He doesn't want to talk of Marian - he's done that already, and it's not terribly fair to her. He knows he hurt her when he chose his family over her happiness, probably doesn't deserve the care and kindness she's shown him today. Doesn't deserve her sacrificing her health for Roland - and as much as she's been insisting she's fine, she hadn't been fine earlier. When she was bent over the sink, red-faced, gasping for air. She hadn't been fine.

He thinks of Roland again, thinks that however much he'd feared for Regina in that moment, it would have been ten times worse if it had been Roland whose lungs were constantly betraying him (had been ten times worse when it was Roland in that hospital bed), except then he'd have had to be strong. Hide his fear.

He thinks back, for a moment, on when she'd first told him she could heal his boy, and suddenly he knows what he can say to her. Something resembling neutral territory: "What happened with Snow White?"

She makes a noise he can barely hear, then clears her throat and says, "What?" He hears the shift of the spray, the quiet pop of a bottle cap opening, and then the whole room starts to smell warm and rich. Her shampoo. He inhales the smell deeply, stronger and more concentrated than it ever was when he caught whiffs of it off her hair.

"When she was a child," Robin explains. "You said she was delirious with fever, and that imp taught you the spell to spare her. But you must've fallen ill, no?"

It was a simple trade, after all. Her health, for a child's illness.

There's a second before she answers, "I nearly died," and her voice is dark and bitter, even through the roughness of her illness. His numb heart clenches for her, though. For the thought of a world where she was taken before he'd ever been able to lay eyes on her. Her voice is more casual when she continues, "Fever so high I'm surprised it didn't cook my brain. The servants spent days forcing folk cures down my gullet, shocking me into ice cold baths. It was horrid - what little I remember of it, anyway. The fever broke eventually." She sighs - heavily enough that he can hear it, and Robin worries for a moment that her lungs will seize again, but they don't. The steam really does seem to be doing her some good.

"My dear husband," she continues, her tone sharp and acidic - Robin is well aware how she feels for her husband, they spent a long night in the forest talking about it, after her run-in with Cora's ghost. "Gave me a necklace as thanks. Diamonds and rubies. So heavy I thought I might tip over wearing it. He had it sent to my chambers with a note. Couldn't even be bothered to hand-deliver."

And just as he had that night in the forest, Robin finds himself seething for the indifferent king. Hating a man he'd always thought relatively fair as far as kings went (no saint, certainly, but far from the worst in their land), for his utter lack of regard for a wife he ought to have cherished. He's stopped short of wishing she'd gone into that tavern all those years ago, because it would have cost him Roland and he wouldn't trade anything for the boy. Not Regina. Not anything. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder how things might have been different. If he could have spared her years of miserable marriage, if he could have protected her heart before it became quite so dark and resilient. Protected it so it hadn't had to be. If they could have had some great love affair then, without the heaps of pain they always seemed to find themselves slogging through now just for the chance to grasp at each other. He'd have loved her so much better than that wretched king.

"He was a fool," Robin says quietly, and the revulsion is there in his voice.

"Yes, well. He paid in the end," she says simply, and with no remorse, and knowing what he now knows, Robin can't find it in his heart to blame her.

So he offers, "That he did," and falls silent again. It's not an endorsement of her crime, he won't go that far, but he won't deride her for it either. She'd wanted free of her shackles, and she'd done what she felt she must. Surely there must have been other, less bloody courses she could have followed, but it was the past, and he's vowed to himself more than once to love her for her future and overlook her dark history.

He doesn't say any more, just stares at the foggy glass pane of the frame on the wall opposite him. It's a drawing of some sort, perhaps a bird, he can't quite make it out through the film the steam has left behind. He listens to her, listens to the dull sound of plastic bottles shifting, the subtle shifts in the spray of the water. After a few moments, he hears the metallic squeak of knobs being turned and the water shuts off.

"Could you grab me a towel from under the sink?" She asks, and he shifts wordlessly to do so. There's a small stack of them, blood-red and plush, and as he draws one out she says his name, questioningly, and he realizes she can't see him and he offered her no acknowledgment.

"Yes," he murmurs, straightening and stepping closer until he can pass the towel around the curtain still hiding her from view. He feels it tug from his hand and lets go, then moves to retrieve her robe from a hook on the back of the door. She'll need it soon enough.

He drapes it over the shower bar, and she says, "Thank you." Her voice sounds better, he thinks. Not well, not normal, but considerably better. A minute later, she tugs the robe down behind the curtain as well, a moment after that she slides it open to reveal herself, and he thinks she looks better too. Refreshed. A bit pink with heat from her scalding water, but refreshed nonetheless.

She steps out of the tub carefully, and he can't help reaching out a hand to steady her. She holds his hand, the other moving to grip tightly at where her robe gaps open slightly toward the top.

"Better?" he asks. He should let go of her hand now that she's steady on her feet, but he doesn't and neither does she. Right now he quite likes the anchor of her fingers, the warmth of them curled around his.

"Much," Regina confirms, and then she looks up at him and frowns, tilts her head slightly. Sees right through him the way he so often does to her. Her brows draw together, the very picture of concern, and she settles her palm flat over his heart. "What can I do for you?"

He's troubled, and she can see it, wants to help, but she already has. She's already done far too much for him this week, and he tells her so, again.

Robin shakes his head. "You've done enough." When she starts to protest again, he drops his forehead to hers, and says, "I just need time." It's something she understands, he knows that, and she confirms it by nodding subtly and staying just as she is. She doesn't move away, and neither does he. The opposite, in fact. He moves his arms to circle her waist, drawing her even closer, and then he shuts his eyes and simply absorbs her for a moment. She smells like lavender and whatever that warm, spicy scent of her shampoo is, and Robin shifts his nose up to her hairline and breathes in deep. Because he can, because he knows she'll let him.

"You smell amazing," he murmurs, lips brushing against her skin as he speaks, and she lets out one of those low, pleased chuckles he used to so love drawing out of her.

"Vastly improved, I'm sure," she says and he tips his head back down and smiles at her.

"You weren't so bad before," he assures, and suddenly he's very aware of how close they are. Of the scant inches between their mouths, of the way her breath washes against his chin when she exhales. The way her eyes flick down to his mouth when the sudden awareness translates into uncommon nerves that have him licking his lips. The air around them feels charged suddenly, and he feels the pull of her, like a magnet, their mouths drifting closer and closer, and he feels his breath pick up, his heart not so numb now, thudding steadily in his chest. He shouldn't do this, but oh he should, he has to, and then when they're so close their intent is obvious, they both seem to pause. They're sharing breath, he can feel the heat of her, but neither seems quite willing to be the one to cross that line.

And then there's a loud, low gurgle in the tense silence of the room, and Regina jerks back like she's been burned, her cheeks pinking from something other than heat, fingers tucking damp hair behind her ear that way she does when she's been caught out. The sudden shift leaves Robin dizzy, but it's probably for the best, he tells himself, and then she's apologizing and saying she hasn't eaten all day and Robin's jaw drops indignantly. That gurgle had been her stomach.

It's nearly nightfall and she's yet to eat? She'll never recover from this illness if she starves herself. "Nothing?" he asks with brows raised high and she shakes her head and he finds himself huffing, and insisting, "Get dressed, and I'll fix you something. I assume there's food in that kitchen of yours?"

She tells him yes, there is, and thank you, and she'll be down in a minute. Her arms are crossed protectively over her middle now, but he's not sure who she's trying to keep at bay - him or herself.

He should take a step back, but instead he steps forward, grips her lapels lightly and presses a warm kiss to her brow. It's not the contact his mouth was burning for only moments ago, but it's far more appropriate under the circumstances.

And then he heads off in search of something to feed her.


	11. Chapter 11

Regina keeps her arms locked firmly against her torso until Robin has shut the door behind him. Then she unbelts the robe and reaches for the pajamas folded on the edge of the sink. She feels a little unsteady, weak-kneed, and she's not sure if it's from the gnawing hunger that her body has suddenly made her so aware of or from that near kiss a moment ago.

She shakes her head, mutters quietly to herself, "Stupid," as she tugs the bottoms up to her hips. He hasn't brought her underwear - a curious omission.

She berates herself mildly as she slips the robe off her shoulders and shrugs the top on, working the buttons closed.

She was such an idiot. Why had she done that? Why had she almost let that happen?

He's grieving, he's not himself (except he is, so much, it's almost possible to believe that none of this is out of the ordinary even though the whole afternoon has been weighted with grief). She should have pulled away sooner, right away, as soon as she'd sensed him moving forward, zeroing in on her lips. She should've stepped back then, because kissing him? That would definitely betray the memory of his wife, and as much as she misses him, as much as she wants him, she doesn't want to do anything he might regret later. It takes two to tango, she knows that, but somehow when things go wrong, it's always Regina who gets the blame, and she's sure if she let him kiss her now, she's the one who'd be in the wrong. Even clouded with illness, hers is the more level head at the moment.

It's good that he's not here right now, good that he's out of her reach for a minute. It gives her time to collect herself, to remind herself that for all the cuddling and canoodling, all the caressing and the comfort, he is not here to date her. He's here to make sure she's alright (which he did hours ago and yet he's still here, a traitorous part of her mind tells her).

He's checking on her. That's all.

He's worried for her health.

_The only person I've really wanted to be near is you._

There's that traitorous brain again, calling up his words that stand in the face of all her attempts to convince herself this is just a social call.

He's not himself. This isn't... This is a mess, she decides with a small sigh. A sticky situation she shouldn't have let herself wander so deep into. She probably should have let him leave the moment he walked in the door. (She doesn't mean that; this afternoon has been a balm to her aching heart. She wouldn't trade it for anything, not even common sense.)

Regina wipes her palm over the mirror to clear away a swath of fog, and studies her reflection (the shower has done her well, she looks less sickly, and her lungs feel freer). Then she looks herself in the eye, and vows that after dinner she'll send him home to his son. His son who needs him, who just lost his mother.

Regina doesn't need him right now. She's being selfish.

As nice as it may be to have him here, to pretend this is something it isn't, something it hasn't been since Marian's return, she doesn't need his presence to heal. He should be with his son, with his Merry Men, with... with whomever he deems worthy of his presence that isn't her. He needs to know she's okay, that she can take care of herself, so that he can go. So that's what she'll do - she'll go downstairs, and she'll be as healthy as she can possibly pretend to be, and then she'll send him on his way.

With a resolute nod, she pulls her robe back over her shoulders, belts it tightly, (the more layers between them, the better), and reaches for the door.

She stops in her bedroom for slippers, and decides to grab underwear, too, so by the time she meets him downstairs, he's had long enough to fix her a sandwich and a tall glass of orange juice, and set them on the island. He has a can of soup in his hand and is rifling through her drawers, no doubt leaving them in disarray. Her lips purse in irritation at the idea before she can stop them.

"Can I help you?"

He seems to startle slightly, turning to face her, and asking, "Do you have some way to open this tin?"

She points to the electric can opener on the countertop and says, "There," and then, "Let me show you."

He lets her - until the exact second the lid separates from the body of the can, and then he is urging her to sit, telling her to eat, that he can handle it from here. Regina takes her place at the island and reaches for the sandwich. It's ham and butter (she'd have preferred mustard, but how would he know that?). She chews quietly and watches as he fiddles with the burner, pours the soup (vegetable, she notices) into a small saucepan. Then he's back in her fridge, re-emerging with a jar of pickles and a bunch of grapes that are just starting to wilt, but still edible. A section of grapes is torn off and deposited on her plate, along with several small pickles.

He returns to the stove, stirs the pot. The burner is on high, she notices - ideal for speed, but not necessarily for quality. She hopes he doesn't scald the soup, but doesn't say anything. She finds she doesn't mind the silence, doesn't mind watching him move around her kitchen like he belongs here. (She should mind, she thinks. He's been unmarried for less than a week. He doesn't belong here, he belongs with Roland. She forces herself to look away, to look down at her plate as she takes another bite.)

Its not long before a bowl of hot soup is set next to her plate. "For you, milady," he tells her with a smile, and then, "I'd prefer you to eat it all." She nods, her mouth full from a fresh bite. Wolfing down soup, sandwich, and sides won't be troublesome with her sudden appetite.

And then he just watches her.

Stands there, one hand resting on the island countertop and watches her eat, and Regina grows mildly self-conscious. As if she doesn't feel naked enough under his gaze most of the time, now he's watching her chew, and chew, and chew, and swallow like it's some matter of great importance.

She looks up and meets his gaze, asks him, "Are you going to eat something, or just stand there?"

It comes out ruder than she'd meant (made even more surly by her hoarse voice) - she hadn't intended to be unpleasant, but he's been here all afternoon. He's probably hungry, too. Robin frowns slightly, and says, "I suppose so," before heading for the fridge to retrieve the food he's already put away.

She's nearly finished with her sandwich by the time he slides onto the stool next to her with one of his own. She moves on to her soup - swirling her spoon through the broth as steam rises from the surface. She takes a small, experimental spoonful and finds it still so hot she nearly scalds her tongue. Pickles it is, then.

She lifts one baby dill to her mouth, and bites down, makes the mistake of glancing in his direction as she chews. He's looking at her again, watching her, watching her mouth, she notices, and when her tongue slips out to wet her lips anxiously, his does the same. A subconscious mirror of her actions, but she can read it, the way he's in tune with her mouth, and it's not good. They're in a dangerous place here, now.

Regina sighs softly and looks away, popping the rest of her pickle in her mouth and tilting her head slightly as she chews. He's just barely in her peripheral vision now.

Robin reaches over, then, and tugs gently at the midnight blue flannel peeking out from under the sleeve of her robe. "Did I choose alright?" he asks of her pajamas.

She nods, tells him, "Fine." He hadn't exactly been spoiled for choice - she only has so many pairs of warm pajamas, and with the weather the way it has been, she's fairly certain this was her last clean set. She'll have to do laundry at some point today or tomorrow, she thinks, exhausted at just the idea of hauling a load or two up and down from the basement. She's feeling worn out again, despite her long nap, and for a few minutes she forgets her plan to convince him she's fit as a fiddle - or fit enough he needn't worry, anyway - and lets herself slump a little, frowning. At least her battered lungs are giving her a brief respite.

Next to her, Robin says her name softly, and then, "Have I upset you somehow?"

Damnit. She really wishes he couldn't read her so well. She's not one to shrink away from confrontation, though, so she sighs again, and tells him the truth. "No..." Her spoon is in her hand again, stirring the soup. "No, _I've_ upset me. I'm sorry about earlier - almost kissing you. I shouldn't have done that."

She meets his eyes then, and they're too blue, and too understanding. His head shakes back and forth, and he slides his fingers along the countertop, closer to her, but stops short of touching. "You weren't alone."

She knows that, but, "Still. You're grieving."

Her voice breaks slightly over the words, and she coughs gently to clear it. Robin looks at her pointedly.

"And you're ill," he counters, but it is not the same. Not the same at all.

"No excuse."

She swallows against a hitch in her throat, then takes a deep swallow of her juice to soothe it. The citrus burns just a little going down, but it's a livable discomfort.

"Regina..." Robin draws in a breath, lets it out heavily, and then turns on his stool to face her, covering the hand clutching her spoon with his own to still it. When he's certain he has her full attention, he tells her, "I fully intend to pursue you again, once some time has passed." Regina's mouth snaps shut - her lips had barely been parted in the first place, but now they press together. She had hoped, particularly after the things they'd said and done today, but hearing him put it so plainly is entirely different. She's not sure what to say to that - not sure if she should even believe it, considering the circumstances. "I need to grieve her, again, and give our marriage the respect it's due, but after that..." His fingers lift to her chin, skim along her jaw, and she shivers violently, involuntarily at the delicate touch. Her reaction makes him smile as he continues, "You'll be well wooed, milady, when the time comes for that. So suffice it to say you're not the only one who's tempted here, and it's not your responsibility to ensure everything between us is proper until such time as it seems right to be otherwise."

"Then whose responsibility is it?"

"Both of us, I suppose."

She nods. "You'll let me know when the time is right."

"Oh, you'll know," he tells her, with a hint of that swagger that has at turns maddened and delighted her in the year and change they've known each other. She smiles at him - it's good to see it back, even if only for a few moments. He grows serious again when he tells her, "I really have missed you these past weeks. And I'm sorry to be the cause of yet more pain for you. You've had plenty in your life, more even than you've shared with me, I'm sure. Quite a bit more than your fair share."

Regina bobs her head - it's true, no doubt (but then, she's caused more than her fair share of torment and misery in return), but she doesn't want to get into it now. She takes another mouthful of soup before changing the subject, asking him, "When is the burial?"

If the sudden change of topic throws Robin, he doesn't let on. He just fiddles with the remains of his sandwich, and informs, "Tomorrow afternoon." Then he cups her cheek, looks her dead in the eye. "You are not to come. You are not to leave this house while you're still so ill."

His voice is firm, but concerned - close enough to the way he talks to Roland sometimes that Regina thinks she should be offended, but mostly she's soothed by his urge to protect her. It's not something many others have offered her in her lifetime, after all.

"I wasn't planning on attending," she tells him with a small smile. "It hardly seems appropriate."

He seems to agree with that, at least, but then he suggests, "I could come check in on you after," and Regina is shaking her head, no, at him.

"Robin..." It pains her to say it, but she knows she should. "I think you need to focus on you for a little while. Lest we end up kissing in the bathroom again." Her tone shifts to a tease for that last part, her lips curving up. Maybe if she can make fun of it, she won't feel that low burn of guilt over her momentary lapse in judgement.

He reads her tone and huffs a small chuckle, then lifts a hand to cup her skull and urge her in closer. His lips fall on her brow, a soft kiss, and then they just rest there.

It's nice, comforting, comfortable. But it's not what she should be doing.

"You should go home, to Roland. Spend some time with your son," she tells him, and Robin nods. Kisses her brow again, murmurs, _Finish your soup_, his stubble tickling against her skin before he eases back.

"Finish your soup, and then I'll go," he repeats, and if Regina takes a little longer than necessary to empty the bowl, well, she's never claimed to be a saint.

When he leaves, it's with a promise that he'll see her again, soon, and orders to rest and remember to eat, and to call if she needs anything. She misses him over the next few days, presses her nose into the place where his smell lingers on her pillow, but she doesn't call. Instead, she dials Emma, has Henry come stay with her again now that she's no longer contagious and no longer tempted to break the dishes and set fire to the trees, and she tells herself that she will give Robin two whole weeks before she reaches out again.

But only five days after he departs, he's back at her doorstep with takeout containers from Granny's, Roland in tow with a fistful of drugstore flowers wilting from the frigid air, and those irresistible dimples.

When Robin grins hopefully at her, too, she steps back and lets them inside.


	12. Chapter 12

The cough lingers for weeks, long after the antibiotics have eradicated the illness from her, and Robin does too. He and Roland practically move in, coming for dinner, staying for breakfast, and he spends his nights lying beside her, all innocence and light touches, as he waits out his grief. Finally, after a full month has passed, he leans in one night before they fall asleep (Roland has passed out on the sofa during a movie, as he does so often, and "why don't you just spend the night?" she asks, as she does so often, and always he agrees), and presses his lips to hers, a goodnight kiss.

It's not the first he's given her, but he has been careful in the past - kissing her brow, or her cheek. He has grown particularly fond of pressing his lips to her temple, enjoys the way it buries his nose in her hair, his nostrils filling with the scent of her shampoo. Familiar. Comforting.

But this is different, this press of lips, warm and seeking and lingering, and she pulls back and gives him a questioning look, and Robin nods at her. She tips her mouth back to his with no hesitation, and they kiss and kiss, slowly and then deeply, tongues sliding against each other, and he has missed the taste of her, has dreamed of it, and finally having her like this again soothes the last piece of his grieving soul, and he puts Marian to rest, for good, and is hers. They stay like that, mouths meeting eagerly, one of his palms flat against her belly, over her navel, until she grows restless, her legs shifting against each other. She tangles their limbs, uses hers to tug his closer until his thigh is wedged snugly between hers, and she grinds up against him and moans softly, the implication perfectly clear, and Robin breaks away with a groan, drops his head against her collar.

It's not as if he doesn't want her, he does, desperately, the evidence of it presses obviously into her hip, but he has sworn to woo her, and woo her he shall. So before he is too far gone to keep his willpower in check, he drops a kiss against her mouth, and extricates his thigh from hers, murmuring, "Not tonight," and she huffs out a breath, and looks at him, puzzled. "I promised to pursue you, Regina, and I intend to do just that."

"You don't need to," she tells him, her hand coasting up and down along his arm in a way that raises goosebumps on his skin.

"Aye, but I want to," Robin insists, because he suspects she is a woman who has not often been pursued, not by someone with intent as pure as his, and he thinks she deserves that for once. So he leans in and presses a kiss, warm and wet, to that place behind her ear that makes her shiver, and tells her, "Sleep."

She doesn't fight him, simply presses her thighs together more tightly and settles against him, moving closer, until there is not a whisper of space between them. She drags his arm across her body, and he goes willingly, holding her to him, but within moments she is shifting, landing on her side and shimmying back against him, eliminating the space again. His arm is still around her, and he ends up with a palm full of the softness of her breast and the smooth silk that covers it. His thumb finds her nipple automatically, traces it, circling, stroking back and forth across it, and she sighs and writhes slightly in his hold and it does nothing to abate the erection that is now pressed against her rear. This is tempting, too tempting, and dangerous if he really does want to wait to bed her, and so he slides his hand down until it rests on her hip instead and she breathes out, "Tease," into the darkness of the room.

He counters with, "Temptress," and "Let's get some sleep," and eventually they both manage.

He wakes to her coughing, the sound and the feel of it, her body still pressed to his as if they haven't moved all night. They have, of course, at least a little bit, and he knows because the hand he had placed so carefully on her hip is now burrowed under her pajama top, betrayed by his own sleeping self, his hand full of her again, but this time bare skin in his palm instead of silk.

He moves his hand to her back and rubs it soothingly, asking if she's alright (it's rote by now, this script of her illness) and she nods and turns in his arms until she is flat on her back and his hand is on the smooth skin of her belly. The movement drags her hip along where he is hard against her again (not still, he knows, because he can tell that he has slept deeply, and well, and for hours, but he has woken up wanting her), and he swallows hard and thinks he'd best get himself out of this bed, or his plans to woo her properly again will disappear as quickly as he is wishing her every stitch of clothing would.

He indulges himself in a kiss, heated and full of promise, and when he hears that low moan in the back of her throat, he pulls away and murmurs against her lips, "I'm going to go make you breakfast."

Regina bites her lip, and smiles and nods, and Robin retreats and tries to pull himself together. When he returns to her a while later, carrying a tray loaded with eggs and bacon and coffee and juice, Roland is there, curled against her side, telling her about some fantastically adventurous dream he has had and the sight of them together makes him stop in his tracks. Something clenches around his heart, warm and loving, and he has another surge of gratitude for her. She looks up and spies him, smirks, her amusement at Roland's tale shining in her dark eyes, and Robin has the fleeting thought that despite the doubts she'd held about Regina, Marian would like this. That if she has to be gone, she would be thankful that Roland has found someone who will listen so intently as he rambles about knights and great fortunes and sneaking into the castle, who nods seriously while her eyes dance with mirth, and who clutches the boy to her and drags him onto her lap when Robin joins them and settles the tray on the bed beside the two of them. Regina may not have been her first choice to mother Roland in her stead, but he thinks if Marian could see them like this, could know this Regina, she'd approve. They eat in bed, and Roland steals pieces of bacon and drinks all of the juice, while Regina downs coffee and forkfuls of egg and Robin feels they have come full circle, finally found their way back to each other.

For the first time since Marian appeared in that diner all those months ago, he feels truly free and light and certain. Unburdened.

He's vowed to woo Regina, and he does, though they are both well aware that he already has her, and has for ages. Still, he buys her flowers and treats her to dinner, and surprises her with his presence whenever possible. He lasts exactly three weeks before he catches her after a bath - he's stopped by, for no reason, just to see her, because he's learned how much she likes that. How much she likes the idea that he comes with no intent but to feast upon the sight of her, or hear her laugh, or kiss her lips just one more time. She answers the door, still in her robe, a frown on her face until she sees it is him. And then that smile blooms, pleased and flattered, and her face is bare of makeup, her hair damp and tousled from her towel, and somehow she has never been more beautiful to him than she is in that moment, stripped down and smiling for him. And he has to have her, right now, he has wooed long enough, he decides, and when he takes her to bed it is urgent and hurried, and he tells himself he should slow down and savor her, but he wants all of her, and now, and he knows they can always do this again.

After, they're lying there skin to skin, and she is tracing her fingers over and over the ink on his wrist, the brand that marks him as hers, and she looks up at him, suddenly, frowning, and asks, "Do you ever blame me for not saving her?"

He knows she means Marian, and it has never occurred to him to blame her. He never thought to question whether her saving Roland and only Roland was a tactical maneuver (others have wondered, Tuck and Little John, and they have asked him, and he has shut them down), but she is asking now, a hint of something he can't quite read in her eyes. Robin lifts a hand, tucks her hair behind her ear, and asks, "Could you have?"

Regina shakes her head, dislodging the lock of hair he'd just smoothed, and tells him, "No. Even if the spell could have been used on her, she was too far gone..."

"You'd have died," he says, and it's a statement, not a question, and the very idea makes something in his chest squeeze painfully. Regina nods, and he feels her breath on his skin as she sighs. "I'd never expect you to give your life in exchange for hers - not even for Roland's," he tells her, although he suspects there's a part of her that would, for his boy. If it ever came down to that. "I could never blame you for not doing what wasn't in your power to do."

She nods, but he can tell she does not feel absolved, and sure enough, she asks, "But do you ever wish-"

He settles the pad of his thumb over her lips, stills her speech, because he can see that look in her eyes again, that doubtful look, the same one she gave him in the hallway outside Emma's room the day after she'd kissed him for the first time. Like she cannot quite understand that he would choose her, when he could do anything else.

His fingers spread along her jaw, and he says her name, once, "Regina," and then, "I am exactly where I wish to be. With you, and Roland, and Henry. This is what I wish for. Nothing more."

That doubtful look lingers for a moment, and then fades, replaced by her smile, and she scoots up, and kisses him, and kisses him some more, and this time when he makes love to her, he takes his time, lingers over every bit of her, tries to show her with actions that his words are true.

When he thinks of Marian, and Roland, and that terrible illness, he feels nothing but gratitude for Regina and the price she paid for them. The thought of Marian's passing still brings an ache to his chest, and he knows from experience that it always will. But he has come to believe that fate has in store what fate has in store, that it cannot be fought, even with magic and time travel and medicine and sheer determination, and that pixie dust really does always speak true. This time is theirs, his and Regina's, and when he looks at her he knows, unequivocally, without doubt, that she was meant for him and he for her.

The winter thaws, her lungs heal, and they together they remain.

.

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* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ _And there we have it. The end of Give Me No More Than Just Enough. Thank you SO MUCH to all who read and reviewed - I am not so great at the review replies, but I read them all and love, love, love to hear what people think of the story._

_For those who feel cheated out of the sexytimes in this chapter, keep an eye out for a "porny addendum" as I like to call it in the next few days - a more detailed account of their reunion sex as mentioned above. _


End file.
